


The Ones Who Stay

by spaceleviathan



Series: Family of Frost [5]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012), The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: familial bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 222,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceleviathan/pseuds/spaceleviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has been waiting patiently, but with no word from Asgard and no sign of his father he's starting to take matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I said I wouldn't, but I did. I got a vague idea, told myself no, and then Pitch jumped into my head and told me to involve him and I couldn't just let that opportunity go. So, here you have another part of my now ridiculously long series.  
> I only intended it to be one part, under 2,000 words. Look what you've all done to me.  
> However, it must be noted that I was completely overwhelmed by the reaction people had to my stories, and I'm delighted that you all decided you liked the series enough to yell at me when I wanted to stop it. So, as a great big thank you, I'm going against everything I said and writing you this: a multi-chaptered extravaganza, which will, hopefully, make you very angry with me all over again. Enough so to comment.  
> Enjoy the first part!

Had there been enough time, Loki likes to think he would have done something else. Had there been enough resources, Loki wants to imagine that he'd have taken a different route. However, for what he had been given to work with and the lies he had to build on, Loki rather thinks he did his best.

As it had been the only option available, or the only one he was willing to utilise, this was the only thing he could do.

One day Midgard would forget what he'd done. Perhaps they might even forgive it first. To the universe, they'd proved themselves capable of watching their own backs, which Loki had certainly not seen coming.

The hardest part had not been lying, because that hadn't been the difficult. Not only was he a proficient manipulator, the god of lies some called him, but most of it hadn't been falsehoods in the first place. He had his own difficulty separating honesty from redirection, not completely sure where one began and the other ended, but it didn't matter since almost all of it had been sincere, angry, frustrating, exciting, and at times humiliating. Meanwhile, the slithers that had been less than truthful had been words that were projected, echoed, rechanneled. The truth was twisted but _never_ broken. Loki's first lie in months had been when he'd been forced to kneel before Frigga whilst she had welcomed him home.

There were things he'd said to her that he was not fully proud of, despite that they had worked more than effectively.

Thor had looked seconds away from vengeful fury, and killing Loki then, in the large rooms of Asgard, would have been better timing, perhaps, then on Earth. On Earth where he had pushed the god of thunder to the edge and beyond, but his temper had forcibly remained; the once jubilant man stoic and shattered and disgusted, but here was a line he thought Loki better than to cross. That line had now been leapt over without hesitance nor regret, and Thor had reached his breaking point.

Worse, however, was Frigga's lack of reaction, and how her initial sad, disappointed expression, mixed in with relief and love upon seeing her child finally returned home, was completely wiped clean. Her chin had tilted, her posture straightened, and where once was a mother now stood a queen. Merciless and brutally efficient, her words were no less the law than Odin's, and Loki had not been taken to be judged by the All-Father, since Her Majesty of Asgard did it right there and then.

He flinched when she touched him, wrapping her hands around his still cuffed wrists, and she snapped them off with a bright glow of her magic simply to replace them with her long fingers. A small part of Loki felt eased by the familiar touch, a caress he remembered fondly from his childhood, when she would stroke his hair, let him play with her fingers, allowing their magic to mix; his green to her gold, and then they would watch as the colours danced.

Thor Odinson wore red and silver - a symbol of his might, his power, his prowess, his strength. Loki wore green and gold, a symbol of his mother.

Another part of him, significantly larger and rational enough to scream _danger_ when it approached, was terrified by her, and wanted nothing more than to bat her hands away. Thor may wish to overreact to the slanders Loki pointedly let slip, but Frigga was an old god, influential and great in ways Thor could not dream to be, and she had no need to be defended by a child.

What she could do, instead of take a hammer to Loki's head as her oldest son would do, was look him straight in his eyes, the same green he knew his own fake eyes to be modelled from, and send a shot of pure dread directed straight at his fight or flight response. All Loki wanted in that instance was flee from her sight and reach as she gently tugged him closer, and he knew it played on his face, his mindless panic and revulsion for her touch, and had she been a lesser woman she may have smiled victoriously upon seeing it.

"My son, how lost you've become," she whispered lowly into his ear.

Loki stared over her shoulder to where Thor stood, the man confused at the look upon Loki's face. Either he had truly no concept of fear, or he had never been on the end of Frigga's rage. The latter was likely since even Loki himself had only seen it once before today. He'd been young then, foolish and inconsiderate, but it was not his actions so much as the consequences which had his mother in such a state. Loki had bore his punishment and she had hated him for it.

Loki felt a sudden jerk upon more than just his arms, and he leaned back to meet her eye.

"What did you do?" He snarled, too close to her, too petrified to care how nasty he had become since he last saw her, last loved her, too wary of himself and this tentative position he'd been thrust into that it mattered little to him what she thought of him now, beyond that she perceive him a monster too far gone to reel back in. Thor thought that, Odin had given up on him as soon as he'd awoken from the Odinsleep, and now Frigga was the only person who remained.

"You will be kept safe, Loki." She said imperiously, stepping back and allowing her voice to echo through the high-arched corridors. Immediately Loki was ceased upon, the heavy hands of the guards hard enough to crush him had he been even less of the person he had become.

Without any emotion beyond the ire that had fuelled his every action for months, he'd been led away, put into lockdown, _kept safe_. Whatever his mother thought was mercy, this was not it. However, he'd been expecting no less, not with what he'd done and would continue to do, and not with the lies which would now forever resonate about Frigga's head.

She was just, she was stern, but she was not cruel. Frigga punished as necessary, lenience ignored in favour of righteousness, but she, like all of Loki's former family, was made of endless fathoms of emotions. For all her face could shutter and close off, for all she could scare him and threaten with pretty words which rang too sweet, she could not stop herself from feeling.

Loki, the boy she raised and adored and cared for passionately without any motivation nor askance for reward, had denied her completely, had spoken of her in such derogatory tones he would have made his biological father proud. Frigga could not ignore this, nor reject it from her mind. Unfortunately such damage had to be done, something deep and vicious and evil, simply to push her away. His father and brother had been easier. Anything else than what he'd done would have been too little, and she would have continued to call him _son_.

Now was better. Now he circled his cell she'd gifted him, glad she was gone from him.

His newest cage was generous in sizing comparatively, but he presumed that was due to the fact it was permanent. He spent the first several days trying to figure out how to break the curse she'd set upon him.

For all that she was powerful, Loki was the stronger mage. For all she was older, Loki was not short his own wisdom. For all she was clever, Loki was brilliant enough to keep up, surpass and think through any one on this realm and beyond. He was not a man to be trapped by so simple an incantation.

And yet, there it was and there it remained, glaring about his wrists. With it he was trapped in his pale Æsir form, bound in himself, magic splintering and spluttering, the metal handcuffs replaced by golden manacles; seared into his skin, squirming under the surface, visible but unreachable.

Loki had already tried cutting his way through, tearing at flesh with his nails when the guards had left him with no blades, but he knew before he started the venture that nothing so simple would do. Her spell was not magic he could bleed out; it was older, more primitive than that. It was love and fury wrapped tightly together, close enough to be indistinguishable. It was only so indestructible by how much she loved him and how much she was coming to loathe him.

It kept his magic inside him, constricting his influence of the forces outside his body.

His internal magical well had long since started to itch across his body, surging up through his muscles, trying to find release where none were. It was painful at times, such as when it caused spasms through his body, a limb going wild when a strong build up became too much, but it was bearable.

It would die down soon enough, calm itself when it saw fit, because whilst magic was unpredictable, dangerous and at times costly, it was also clever. It learnt, it reacted, and it would have to get used to staying where it was, since Loki saw no immediate reprieve from his entrapment.  

No violence would release the curse's hold over him, no potions nor tricks would budge his bindings. He would have to remain, suddenly no more than the basest of warriors, kept in a cell, hidden and safe, until an answer became apparent.

It was no great hindrance, since he would have been forced into a cell one way or another, but it was the destruction of his back-up plan, which had simply been: _rely on own magic to get out of self-made catastrophe_.

Other things had time then, once he had accepted his fate, to fill up his mind and clutter his thoughts. Such mess was not a problem to Loki, who thrived in the chaos, and who also found himself with the time to sort through it all should he wish.

Most of it he dismissed: they were memories, worries, pains and losses from a life he was no longer associated with. They had no meaning to him, and he was eager to slam down on them before they ran over him and made him change his mind. Worse, he thought that perhaps if he lingered on them he might taint them. He'd rather recall a vague feeling of happiness and cling to it then be clear with the irrelevant memories but see the truth that had been hidden behind them all along. _A shadow_ , he had found the last time he'd taken a peak.

Then there were things he couldn't dismiss as readily: A market with men, women and children all hiding themselves with their hoods, a song cutting through the forest air, which sung Loki straight into turning tail and running, or a scream through a village of a little girl to her father.

Those, he studied with a detached sense of surrealism, in that they felt alien to him. They were memories of too long ago, distant and faded grey, and they had been torn from his emotions by more immediate matters that required he give up all but the things he kept closest to him. These were certainly memories well-loved and treasured, sequestered away in some secret, selfish place for hundreds of years, but they were ones which were associated with people he'd lost, and ones he knew he'd never see again. People like Angrboða, Emma, or Amelia, or Jack.

Jack.

And just like that, Loki was caught up in his musings, fully absorbed with his regrets and distress.

His youngest son, the boy he'd lost three hundred years ago, had been haunting him ever since the day he'd died, flitting around and finding him like he was a child again, pulling Loki into an extended game of hide and seek. Loki had always let Jack win.

Loki hadn't the time to spare since he'd met with his son so recently to think on the incident at the park. Loki hadn't the emotional capacity to deal with it, which he discovered when he returned to the thought and analysed it critically. It made him distant. Sad, certainly, but largely vacant. It meant so little to him now, since he'd lost so many. What was another goodbye to him? Because this was what this newest imprisonment was: losing Jack all over again.

He could not break out for his son when he could hardly break free of his own fake skin. The most he could do in that moment was heal his self-inflicted wounds and warm himself against the cold should he want. Not that Loki had ever been bothered by the chill before.

They needed no chains for him here, not when Frigga had been impossibly clever. He would stay, he would brood, he would never see a slither of sun again, and he would mourn. He had done too much of that already, and this would mark the third time he'd lost the boy, but in its own way this particular instance felt like he was putting his son in the ground all over again.

He wished he could care about that more than he did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki feels? What Loki feels? There are no Loki feels here.


	2. I'm Coming Home

Christmas was drawing nearer and the seasons were shifting. Jack had spent the last few weeks in Russia - a well known haunt for the winter spirit - discovering the children as they were starting to discover him, delighting in the attention he was given and the praise he received.

A snow day became a _Jack Frost_ day, a day to be thankful that the spirit of snow decided education came second to a classic afternoon of fun. It was a trend which was creeping across the world as the seasons trod their annual path.

Jack was revelling in it. He had yet to get over the thrill of being able to look a child in the eye and have them look back. Or, have a child accuse him of the snowball toss when before they'd have looked to thin air. Now, he was present, visible, believed in. A Guardian.

And he kept them safe. His own memories returned to him; the remembered terror in watching as the ice cracked beneath his sister's feet, and then the choking icy hold of the water as he himself plunged into the depth, was enough to keep Jack on his toes.

He'd never been worried about the snow before - not since he was alive and certainly not since he'd become the embodiment of all that is winter, but now he personally knew the dangers of it, and the words of his father would echo in his head every time he saw a child head towards a frozen lake.

 _You can never know the safety of frost._ _It is rare ice that will give you warning._

Emma had stood on that rare ice, and it had given Jack a chance to trade himself for her. He had taken that chance. He had _not_ stood upon rare ice.

If a child were to take it to their heads to play on a frozen river in Jack's watch, it would swallow up his attention and sap out the joy of the game. The children would frown at him as they skated, not understanding why the sprite would perch high upon the hook of his staff and stare solidly, angrily, at the ice.

They did not know the concentration Jack poured into keeping every part of the water solid, sturdy and stable, because no matter how well insulated the clothes of today were, children still stood as little chance of surviving a dip as Jack had. So he would frown at the ground and stare and breath cold wind to ensure the continued wellbeing of those under his care.

He would be fine once more as soon as they stepped off the ice, and many of the children had not returned to the rivers a second time after seeing the way the distress fled from his features immediately when their feet touched the solid ground again. After, he'd return to his bubbly, mischievous self with the pearly white grin and his winking blue eyes. That was when they liked him best.

Jack would move on, as he always had, quickly and happily, and in the direction of his home. It was steady trek, following the weather patterns as he always had, though occasionally he liked to blow into town early and make some hassle for the ever-frowning, adult population.

Burgess was not a pretty town - it never had been, even when it was made of wood and dreams of a better future - but everything looked nice under a thick layer of snow. Jack was happy to share his gift with the Americans a little before season. He had it in droves, no need to save any for a rainy day, as dark clouds followed him everywhere, and the icy wind took him wherever he wanted to go.

"Jack!" Jamie cried out, immediately running out to greet him as soon as the first sign of snow emerged. Quickly following were the rest of his merry crew: those brilliant, brave children who had so recklessly stood up to Pitch earlier that year.

"Hey, you," Jack returned, grinning at all the children from his balance on the Bennett's fence. "And Sophie!" He picked up the little girl as she jumped for his attention, making more eloquent sentences than last time he'd seen her. "Agh, you're heavier than last time, Soph," he told her as she giggled.

"Is everything still okay?" Jamie asked hesitantly, even as he helped his friends gather up snow for a snowman. "I mean with-" Despite the fact Jack knew he wasn't scared of Pitch, there was still something threatening in the shadows that no Guardian could chase from a child's mind.

"You having nightmares?" He wondered, and Jamie shrugged, shaking his head.

"Not anymore than everyone else. That's good, right?"

"Yeah, that's great." He hopped down, placing Sophie on her booted feet into the increasingly dense layer of snow. He encouraged her to waddle her way from him so he could better speak to her brother. "Pitch is gone, and that's thanks to you, Jamie. No one's seen him since last Easter, and he's probably not coming back for a long time after you showed him what you're made of. There is no bogeyman anymore."

"You sure?" Jamie said, biting his lip. Jack's eyebrow creased.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Jamie, is there something bothering you?" Because the boy looked tormented by a thought which didn't fit right to his beliefs, and he couldn't shift the dissonance enough for his mind to calm.

"Is there something more out there? I mean, more than you guys."

"Like Pitch?"

"Pitch wasn't like you, was he?" Jamie told him, less than a question and more of a statement. "I mean, Santa seems human, and you at least look like a person and I guess Sandman does a little, but the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny obviously weren't, and Pitch-"

He tettered off, but Jack understood his meaning. There was something strange about Pitch, something out of place, which set him apart from the rest of them. He looked humanoid; unlike Sandy and Toothiana or Bunny, but he screamed of something more than the Earth, more than sky, more than the stars that shone at night. He was forever, and distant, and everything _but_ the world, and Jack had felt a presence like that before.

Jack was coming to believe Pitch was not like the Guardians at all; he was more like the Man in the Moon than any of the five of them.

"Aliens?" He asked Jamie, who nodded quickly, glad Jack had figured his messy thoughts out and not laughed in his face. "You're scared of aliens?"

"Should I not be?"

It was an interesting question for sure, especially in regards to everything that had happened to Jack in these past few months. If there was anything more surprising than finding out his father is an immortal alien from the legends of Vikings, then it was finding out he was a hostile one. Jack had forced himself to watch the news from the other side of windows, staring at the bitty footage of a far-off figure in green, or the images from a cell-phone camera of a reckless, tactless stunt pulled in Germany. He had spent most of the broadcasts trying not to compare the image of this evil being to a man in his memories. Or worse: to the broken creature he'd seen been dragged away by his own brother.

Because the potential overlord on the TV was certainly an alien to be afraid of.

To be honest, looking back, Jack was starting to think that the only people in the town who hadn't been petrified of his father had been his family.

But the thing that had been dragged back to Asgard had been neither of the above: he was angry and defeated, true, and the grasping hands aimed for Jack had been nothing sort of a blast from the past, but he was different. He was not a danger anymore, just as Pitch had stopped being a threat as soon as the children had ceased to see him.

Jack leaned close to Jamie, keeping his voice hushed, and asked him what in particular he was scared of.

"There was a battle in New York." Jamie said, swallowing thickly at the memory of it. "The news said that hundreds of people were killed, and there were aliens and they were dangerous. There was a leader, but no one really knows who he was. The Avengers took care of it, and I know it's okay now, but it just felt like what happened with Pitch all over again."

Jack had seen the pictures of what SHIELD called _The Chitauri_. He'd padded his way through security once soon after, just to sneak in on a meeting, and there he had picked up a hell of a lot of information before they'd noticed the distinct and unseasonable chill. After that Fury had shut up pretty quick and even tried to kick him out against his will. Crazy one-eyed human. 

In their own way, the Chitauri had been a lot like Pitch's Fearlings - unsightly, monstrous, but not too hard to kill. They were also numerous, endless waves coming down from the sky, and dependent upon a higher power. For the Fearlings that had been Pitch, or later the terror Pitch held of them, and for the Chitauri it had been whatever was behind the gaping abyss in the heavens which Iron Man had shot a nuclear missile through.

And the comparison brought back another, one which had already bothered Jack's psyche before: That of his father and the Nightmare King. Both brilliant and shining and dark and out of place. Uncomfortable in their own skins, like they were wearing something ill-fitted, not correctly tailored for either of them. 

For Pitch, it showed in his eyes which glowed golden amid all that black. They echoed Sandy's dream-sand, as if his grey, callous exterior was forced upon something as pure and beautiful as the Sandman. Jack remembered the emotive portray of betrayal as Jack had told him _no_ , and how quickly those eyes had shifted from cold to warmth and back again to ice.

Sharp like a hawk, sometimes even evil, Pitch's eyes were the one aspect of him which had ensured Jack had felt sympathy for him like a stab in the gut as soon as the king of shadows realised the children could no longer perceive him.

For Loki, it was everything but his eyes. Whilst he held himself like a prince, and acted as a man who had earned the respect he was owed, he had never seemed, at least to Jack, like a person who could sit comfortably with himself. Even in the short period Jack had been alive, he'd seen his father shift through personas as if casting off clothes, trying to find the one which _worked_. The one which felt _right_. As far as Jack could see, he had never found the right one.

Now, however, it looked like he'd given up completely. Even the time before last, in the 1950s when Jack had met him by the lake, Loki was still fighting whatever it was he so often waged war against, and he had looked to be winning. Who, or what, that opponent was remained a mystery to Jack, but whether it be himself or some unseen, unbeatable foe didn't make a difference so long as Loki kept on fighting the good fight.

And so far he hadn't surrendered, at least until Jack saw him chained in shackles. His stance had been one that spoke of defiance and fury, but it was all posturing and fables; mere illusions to make his enemies look away from the weakness they would see about the corner of his eyes should they care to glance up.

Jack had made sure to, because Loki had always lived honest in his eyes, where elsewhere was naught but a farce. Jack had learnt that trick when he'd caught Loki trying to lie to Abigail once too many times.

Overall, as far as Jack was concerned, Loki was no more evil underneath than Pitch was. Loki wanted some truth, so he lied and tricked his way into getting it. Pitch wanted attention, and the quickest way to do so is often the most cruel.

However, it never mattered what was inside, since those hidden truths never influenced actions. They were sequestered away, squashed and eventually forgotten about, until whatever was on the surface was all that was left. The unfortunate thing was that both Pitch and Loki had seemed to have reached that end-point.

So, yes, perhaps Jamie should be rightfully scared, since Jack's father - or whatever remained of him - had so brashly breezed through this planet, bringing with him chaos and terror on a scale even Pitch would be impressed by, and he had no intentions to spare innocents like strong-willed Jamie, or even sweet little Sophie.

The little girl fell through the snow in her attempts to return to them, and Jack gazed at her fondly. He had been older than Emma - enough so to remember her when she was a similar age to the tiny blonde child, and her stumbling climb was an echo of Jack's own sibling, whom he had lost so long ago.

Jamie found a moment to ask Jack a final question before Sophie's ears caught on, but just in case he hissed it low, bringing his forehead closer to the winter spirit's.

"What if he comes back?"

The boy wasn't talking about Pitch. He had never been. Pitch was a fear forgotten, dismissed, ignored, overcome. The Bogeyman was not a factor in Jamie's life anymore, because now there was something even more dangerous; something which had proven to be a killer and a monster, and something which wasn't frightened away by the light of day.

He was talking about Loki. He was talking about Jack's father.

Jack thought on the last moments he'd seen the Asgardian, weak and sad and scratched and bleeding, and the gag he'd taken from Loki's lips, and the chains which kept him bound compliantly. If that was a treatment continued in Asgard, Pitch had a better chance of returning tomorrow than Loki had in twenty of Jamie's life-spans.

"He won't, buddy," Jack told him, ruffling his hair as comforting as he could, whilst his stomach tore itself apart in misery. "I'm sure of it."

And Jamie took him at his word, finally grinning properly as all children should when it snows, his nose pink from the cold and his friends laughing behind him as they try to construct something vaguely human-shaped to call their frozen masterpiece.

The child ran to them then, just as Sophie collapsed over Jack's knee where he remained kneeling. Jack picked her up, put her on his back, and started riding low winds, making her squeal in delight as they were both lifted from the ground.

"You're not scared of aliens, are you?" He asked her, and she shook her head, digging her face into the hood of his jumper.

"J'mie said to not be sc'red of 'nyfing." She mumbled, and Jack was overcome with pride for his brave little friend who always put others before himself.

"Your brothers right, Soph." He told her. "And do you know why? Because he's always gonna be there for you. That's what big brothers do."

That's what they always did.

\--

North wasn't unhappy when Jack burst through his doors, but that was unsurprising since it took a lot to make North angry. Or worse, sad. Sad North was not something anyone wanted to deal with, since North was the mother-hen of the group who always looked out for his friends and their feelings. It made them dependent on him and incapable of returning the favour.

Nevertheless, Jack had walked in during the mad rush before Christmas. The Yetis had only let him in since Jack had made peace with Phil. His unsightly timing meant North, whilst never begrudging a friend a surprise visit, was certainly in no mood to cater to Jack's usual brand of mischief. That was fine with Jack, however, as he was feeling exactly the same.

North looked a second away from frowning his almighty, crippling, most displeased expression, half in joke and half with every ounce of seriousness reserved for the Christmas period and any interruptions thereof, as Jack made a hassle out of ruining the Yetis' hard work to get to his fellow Guardian. 

"Jack, 'tis not the best of times-"

"You said you went to Asgard." That was Jack, always cutting to the chase. He hadn't thought about it before, not within the whirlwind of finding and losing and finding his father. Not when he'd been consumed by the memories he was rediscovering, or the life he was reliving, or the joy he was unearthing in between the sorrow he was enduring. There had been no time throughout all of this to sit down and reminisce and truly _think_ about what the Guardians had said to him all those months ago.

"Pardon?" North replied, face slack as his train of thought had been blown straight off the track and into the ditch below. "Asgard?" But his face cleared up soon enough, bright with understanding (and possibly too much eggnog), nodding to himself before pinning Jack with those sparkling, blue eyes. They were his wonder eyes, Jack noticed.

"You found him, then?" He asked, and Jack had to stop himself from nodding.

"I lost him. He was sent back to Asgard-"

"I know. I heard."

"From the TV?" Jack asked dubiously, eying the workshop for any sort of modern contraption, finding nothing but the brilliant, magical Santa Claus toys.

"From Manny." North corrected, making Jack scowl.

"How come he talks to _you_?"

"He's worried about you, Jack."

"There's no reason to be. I'm fine."

"Then why do you want to go to Asgard?"

A puzzle piece snapped into place then, and Jack's eyes narrowed. "Why _don't_ you want me to go to Asgard?"

North looked uncomfortable, which was strange considering North did discomfort about as much as he did upset, and it made the winter spirit all the more suspicious. "You're keeping something from me."

"Asgard is not a nice place at the moment, Jack. There is much hostility regarding your father." At least he was honest. "Manny, and myself, are simply worried about your safety."

Jack scoffed, batting away an elf as it tried to offer him cookies. The little devil looked about ready to bite his ankle before Jack sent a gust of snow his way, freezing him solid. "Why? What can they do to me? I'm already dead."

Jack sometimes forgot himself and how there were people out there who were now his friends. North was one of them. The big man himself had been made a Guardian without having to die first. He would never know the terror of it, the darkness, the pain, and that was a good thing. But it meant he was guilty that Jack _had_ , and didn't like that Jack always acted like it was just a thing; nothing major, no biggie, just another bump in the road. For Jack that was what it felt like - as soon as he'd died he'd forgotten about it, so all that emotional trauma which should have happened had been completely, thankfully, bypassed. It was no doubt why MiM wiped his mind clean in the first place.

So, when North flinched at his words, Jack did take a moment to apologise.

"Asgard is outside of Manny's influence." North explained. "It is not the same as here."

Jack nodded, because the part of the memory that was most clear had been North explaining he and Bunnymund had _spoken_ to locals. That meant they had interacted with people older than any of them, which automatically meant that Asgard was playing by different rules to Earth where only children were capable of catching sight of them.

"Will he see me? If I go there, I mean."

Helplessly, North shrugged. "I'm unsure. The fact is, Jack, that you are a spirit. Spirits are not common anywhere outside of Helheim, and so whatever happens to me may not be true for you."

"But there's a chance?" Jack insisted, crowding North's space and raising his voice urgently. Because he needed to know, he needed to be sure. "There's a chance that we'll see each other again?"

Immediately, North's eyes softened. That wonder was back, along with great wells of love and sympathy. Jack was humbled by it, and sank into the touch when North took him by the shoulders and clutched him like a child.

"There is always hope, Jack. Just ask Bunny. You _will_ find each other."

"But you still think it's too dangerous?" Jack was speaking into North's chest, nothing more than a petulant, worn-out muttering, but the man understood him despite his mope.

"Yes. There are scary people in the universe, Jack, and Asgard is far-flung from this world." His hand was heavy but comforting on Jack's back, rubbing circles into his shoulder blades slowly. "We care about you, and would do anything to make sure you are never hurt again."

And they would, this new company of his. These insane, strange, joyous people who dedicated every waking moment of their lives - and sometimes even forgoing sleep altogether - to make sure that the children of the world remain happy and safe. The same love they had for the kids they protected stretched over to their fellow Guardians, who would all risk everything in a second to save another of their own.

And Jack had been too deep in mourning his old family that he'd never gotten used to the fact he'd found a new one.

However, that didn't rule out the fact there was still someone out there, alone and broken and important, who Jack needed more than anything else in this world. He'd gladly forgo his own safety for a chance of a reunion, just a word shared between them, or a sighting, or a touch. Because no matter how much he loved his friends, or the children on Earth, there were some things which were more important.

Loki, for all his faults, was Jack's father and would remain so forever. He was alive (Jack hoped) and potentially beyond rationality, but from their last meeting Jack was remaining positive. Loki had broken the façade of madness long enough to make a frantic snatch for his son, therefore Jack refused to believe he was completely gone.

And if Jack didn't at least try, then there was absolutely no hope at all.

\--

North had called a meeting, despite his busy schedule, and Tooth had shown up despite hers. Bunny, as usual, was painting his eggs leisurely, whilst Sandy was doing his best to remain awake. Though they all looked casual they were aware of how important this gathering must be, especially since North had put Christmas on hold for it.

"You want to do _what_?" Bunny snapped at the same time that Tooth and three of her fairies gasped. Silent but surprised, an exclamation mark appeared over Sandy's head, and at Jack's cheek Baby Tooth made a noise of protest.

"They took my father there, and that's where I'll find him!"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea to be openly related to him at the moment." Bunny said, tact ignored in favour of hard truth, and Jack knew why. Loki hadn't been a nice person at the best of times, even when he'd lived on Earth, so that he'd gained a reputation across the nine realms was no surprise to his son. Apparently, if North's stories were accurate (though Jack was dubious about his sources), the man had now left a destructive footprint in more than one planet, as well as murder more people than anyone could account for. Furthermore, there were the  _prophecies_ , whatever that meant. North kept on telling him to beware them.

As soon as he'd mentioned it, the very mention had sent an instinctive jolt of fear down Jack's spine. The word 'prophecy' had always been a sound condemned in Loki's book - Jack's father had no more liked the idea of them than Abigail had. She called it witchcraft, and he called it nonsense.

He used to tell Jack, "They are only a singular possible outcome of a multitude of futures."

Or, "They are nothing more than an interpretation of an image taken out of context."

Or, "They're a single spark of truth wrapped in a dense package of falsehoods." The trick was finding the truth underneath all of the lies.

Jack had never trusted the priests when they spoke of prophecies, therefore, because he thought they were the ones Loki referred to. He had since come to realise that he had assumed incorrectly, though the real prophecies that had scared Loki so were still unknown to Jack.

"I have to find him." The winter sprite told his friends, because there was no more motivation behind his actions than that. Loki was in need, and Jack was his son. It was his duty to help him. His duty to save him.

"He'll be impossible to see." Bunny argued, putting his egg on the table firmly and slipping his paintbrush behind his ear. "They'll have him locked up tighter than a present at Christmas."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"Then why are you trying? They'd rather kill you than look at you!"

In the following moment of silence, Bunny seemed to realise what he said.

"Do you think that's even possible?" Jack queried, brushing it off easier than the rest of the gathering managed. Bunny shrugged sheepishly, scratching at the table with his claws in nervous guilt.

"I wouldn't risk it." Was his final conclusion, and Tooth was quick to interject hers straight after.

"Loki is an adult, and he's much older than you. Than _us_. He'll be fine, Jack, and he'll be back one day."

Jack looked to Sandy then, who startled under the attention as if he wasn't the one they all turned to for answers. Whilst Jack valued the opinions of the other three, Sandy was the wisest, the kindest, and in many ways he was also the strongest. He was the one which they all relied on, really.

So, therefore, his answer held weight much unlike the other three. It was just that bit more important, in that Jack was more ready to trust it, and potentially even listen to it.

He looked torn. On the one hand, Sandy knew Jack wanted to see his father, and the empathetic looks the golden man sent the younger spirit told the guardian of fun how much he wanted Jack and Loki to be reunited, to find their happiness.

On the other hand, he would not be able to forgive himself should he let Jack waltz off to his second death.

So, when he shook his head sadly, apologetically, Jack knew that this was the end of the discussion.

However, no matter how much he might think of them or how much he cared, the only thing Jack was willing to stop his quest for would be if the MiM personally told him _no_ , and he knew that wasn't likely to happen any time soon. It hadn't happened in three hundred years, after all.

\--

Perhaps North would have been able to stop his teammate had it not been the busiest time of the year.

For all the guardian of wonder knew that Jack would not give up so easily, he also had Christmas to arrange and the troublesome young man had already put him half a day behind. The elves weren't helping in their panic, and the Yetis were working overtime, incapable of paying attention to every area of the workshop at all times, therefore.

And that was precisely what Jack was banking on. All he needed was an opportunity and a distraction. The latter was already underway: the very season making every inhabitant the exact opposite of jolly, and in their rush to catch up they never noticed the cold breeze that hissed over their necks as Jack snuck by.

North was out late, up to his elbows with inspections and ideas and maintenance, so his office stood empty and open. Better than that, his snow globes were unprotected.

Truly, the thing Jack loved most about this plan was that he didn't even need to worry about raising any alarms. As soon as he'd nabbed two globes - pathetically easy, hidden away in a drawer at North's desk - the entire North Pole knew there was an intruder, but their bluster to get to him was of no use since Jack had just stolen his own getaway car. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written to Wagner's Götterdämmerung. For many reasons.  
> In other news: Two chapters in two days? It's a miracle! I'm going to try to make the pace fairly fast with this one, but since I'm writing another multi-chapter at the same time I am not making any promises. I'm focusing on the next chapter of the other one first. However, the next chapter of this will have Pitch involved. And I love Pitch, so it'll likely be out sooner rather than later.  
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Let It Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't get over how fun it is to write Pitch.

The panic started whilst Odin and Thor had locked themselves away, as their conversation called for privacy. Therefore, they were not there to see it.

"It's mother," Thor said urgently, sadly thinking to the beautiful Frigga, who had been so restless these past few weeks. She had taken to her duties obsessively, consuming herself within them, keeping to herself and refusing to speak to either her son or her husband. "Is she likely to recover?"

It had been a blow to the queen to be confronted with the wretched image of her lost son, come home in chains, bedraggled, bleeding, vicious. She had tried to be loving, only for him to spit out violent, horrific words Thor did not expect him capable of; not to her. Never to her. Since then she had smiled easily, kept a serene face and the same delicate front as always, but Thor could see the change as effortlessly as Odin could. Frigga was far from what she presented herself as, and yet her façade ensured that they could not confront her about it without immediate dismissal.

"She will, with time." Thor's father assured him, putting a strong hand atop the blond's shoulder. "For now, it's still too soon. She was ill-prepared for Loki's change, and she cannot be blamed for her reaction. She did right for the realm, the only thing she could for him, but her emotions were not ready for what he put her through so mercilessly."

Loki had been cruel, and perhaps Thor should have expected it. He, unlike Frigga and Odin, had seen the differences about his brother first-hand; he'd observed the evil Loki had spread amongst the humans, watched as Loki's very presence had them turning on each other, Thor included in the count. He'd seen the aftermath of all the destruction brought by Loki's hands, and he'd never wished he did not know the dark-haired magician before that moment, when he'd overlooked the demolished human city and all the dead that lay therein.

Yet, for some reason, he thought coming home would help Loki. Now, all he had to show for this naive display of optimism was an incarcerated brother and a family torn apart.

"We must be there for her," Odin said, ignoring the sharp footsteps that were rapidly headed their way. Some things were just more important. "Always, and with an open heart. She will confide in us eventually."

"Will she? It was Loki we always turned to."

Odin's shoulders drooped as a sigh was released with it. His bright eyes were sorrowful as he, like Thor, started to recall the past, when Loki was young and clever and happy, and constantly there for them all when they found themselves in need of an ear. When Odin wanted to rant to a private party who would not judge him nor spread his words outside the palace, there was Loki. When Frigga had need of someone to confide in that she could not risk with her friends, there had been Loki. When Thor had found himself in too deep, it was Loki he had looked to first.

Loki had always laughed at him, but he would also always and without fail risk everything, including his own safety, to help his brother. When had that changed so dramatically? When was it that Loki had shifted and started wanting to hurt him instead?

"I will see him," Odin told Thor softly. "And you should too. He may benefit from talking, as your mother would if she weren't so upset-"

He was cut short when guards appeared at the door, wide-eyed and panting, swords drawn and primed for battle. Immediately, both father and son, king and crown prince of Asgard, stood straight and alert, ready for whatever news they brought.

"Your highness! Outside!" One managed through heavy breaths, pointing to a window which had been drawn across by curtains. Odin pulled aside the draperies, Thor by his side, and cast his singular eye across his world.

Slowly, he reached out a hand, before drawing it back in to watch as the ice melted across his palms.

"Snow?" Thor asked, surprised. "But we do not have snow."

Asgard was seasonless, like Jötunheim or Muspelheim. There was only one weather in any of those particular realms, and for Asgard it was eternally sunny. That there were dark clouds in the sky and there was snow falling from them could only mean one thing.

"Frost Giants?" Odin said into the tense air, perplexed and seemingly unconvinced. Thor looked to the guards, and barked at them to explain.

"It just started suddenly." One said. He was a relatively young warrior, of a lesser age than Thor at any rate, who had likely never seen a different realm, and therefore had never experienced these differing weathers. "There was no warning."

"Has there been any sign of them? Of the Jötuns?"

"No, my lord. Nothing."

"Then we do not know for certain it is their fault." Thor barked. "Do not cause panic with mere speculation."

"It's too late for that, sire." Another mentioned. "All have come to only one conclusion."

Odin tore himself from the view of his kingdom. Down below he could see people, armed and angry and scared, gathering in the streets with violent intent in their hearts. It was his duty to stop them before anyone lashed out to another mistakenly, thinking them a Frost Giant of magic, or capable of shape-shifting, as some were known to do.

"Thor, speak to him." He ordered, leaving his son behind as he swept through the guards and out towards the door. "You two men, find my wife and ensure her security. The rest of you, come with me. We will find out the truth behind this."

Thor, meanwhile, had fled in the other direction, down winding halls and past terrified citizens who were marching out to the doors to where they were ready to defend their realm to the death. Thor, knowing the cold of ice and snow better than many of the inhabitants of Asgard - having been an adventurer his whole life long - simply wished they'd wrap themselves up a little more if they insisted on facing these new elements.

He slammed open the door to Loki's darkened, locked-down room with no heed to any danger from his sibling. There was none to be found, as far as he was concerned. Whilst Loki was a skilled fighter, he had always relied too heavily on his magic and had never before beaten Thor in an unarmed scuffle.

However, it wouldn't have been necessary to be cautious in the first place, since Loki seemed to have no intentions to attack at all. Instead, he was sitting by candlelight, reading a book placidly. He looked up uninterestedly as the door smashed open, just to see his brother silhouetted by the light from outside.

"Thor?" He questioned, only then wary, closing his book slowly and eying the blond with distrust. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

 _'Humble'_ was certainly an accurate term. Whilst he had books by the plenty, Loki had no furniture more than a chair and a table to eat from. He did not even have a bed - simply a pile of furs for him to lie on. There were no windows, only one door, and very little by way of privacy should someone from the outside decide to barge in as Thor had just done should they feel the need to.

The sight of his brother confined to such quarters disgusted Thor, since Loki was a prince, his kin, second in line to the throne, and yet he was living in such squalor. Despite that it was no less than Loki deserved, Thor couldn't help being sickened.

"You've come to save me, have you?" Loki said, smiling delightedly at his own joke. It was only funny due to how false they both knew the statement to be, and even then Thor didn't feel much like laughing.

"Please, sit." Loki said, waving a hand, before gasping dramatically and standing up himself. "I apologise, my lord, I didn't mean to suggest you sit on the floor. Here, take the chair. I can't be sat above you after all. That is not my place."

Had Thor not known Loki any better, he might have even said the sorcerer's tone was pleasant as well as true. Instead, he could detect the venom beneath each syllable, and the snide way he stressed his words which indicated just how much he thought of Thor in that moment.

Nevertheless, he sat on the furs expectantly, nodding to the chair when Thor hesitated to move.

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "Are you too noble for my hospitality now, as well? I will only speak to you if you allow me the pleasure of civilised company. I'm rather lacking it, as of late."

As soon as Thor had perched himself on the carved, wooden seat, he immediately presented Loki with an accusation.

"What have you done to the skies?"

Loki showed his wrists, waving his hands so Thor could better see the magical shackles keeping him bound. "T'was not me."

"Perhaps it isn't conscious." Thor said, because he didn't know enough about a Jötun's natural magic to know if Frigga's bindings were enough to keep that more instinctive magic under control. "There is snow coming down upon Asgard."

"Snow?" Loki seemed taken aback, before his expression shifted into disappointment. "And you think that if I realised I had access to magic, all I would do is unleash snow upon Asgard?"

"Many people here have never seen snow before," Thor explained, at precisely the same time that Loki's mind seemed to catch onto the fact and his eyes widened with excitement.

"How I _wish_ I could see their faces. What of the warriors three? Have they stabbed anything yet?"

"There has been no attacks, and the people have kept their heads so far."

"Then it can't be me." Loki pointed out. "Since when do I do anything by half?"

Thor conceded. "But is it the Frost Giants?"

It was the wrong thing to ask, and Thor realised this as soon as his brother's face dropped. Where before had been polite and open, no matter how much of it was a lie, now remained only anger - Loki was completely shut off from Thor; once again every inch the being who had so brutally invaded Earth.

"How am I able to know all these answers? I'm locked up in here, Thor. You think that because I am one of those monsters that I can sense them? That I can _know_ them?"

"No, Loki," Thor protested, even though he knew it was half a falsehood. Part of him _had_ believed that maybe Loki could feel the difference in the snow and potentially recognise it as of Jötun origin.

"Don't _lie_ to _me_." The mage snarled, standing and backing away from the blond, glaring furiously, itching to lash out, as was evidenced by his shaking hands. He was working so hard to restrain himself, his knuckles white with the effort, reminding himself how easily he'd lose in a fist-fight with Thor.

"Please, I did not mean it that way." Thor pleaded.

Loki didn't believe him, despite the fact that this time there was nothing but truth in the statement. Thor had honestly not intended to imply a type of brotherhood between Loki and the Jötuns, because Loki would never be a Frost Giant to him, even when it seemed Loki had come to accept it himself.

The fight suddenly fled the smaller of the two, leaving the sorcerer looking weary and worn. He looked to the door slowly where weak natural light shone through, made grey by the snowing clouds, but still better than the dull glow of the prisoner's candle.

"You should leave now, Thor." He said, and it took a moment for Thor to agree. He bid a small goodbye to the man, looking so lost and forlorn in his cell, and Thor was once more outraged by what had been done to his brother. Irrationally, all he wanted to do _was_ come to save him. Next time he swore he would.

"I bet it's beautiful." Loki spoke out, but it wasn't directed at the thunder god. It was wishful, nostalgic, and Thor remembered when Loki had first seen the snow on Vanaheim so many thousands of years ago. He recalled how the younger of the two had been amazed, confused, constantly asking their mother questions, whilst Thor himself had been nervous about it. It was too cold, too wet, too strange for the young crown prince. Loki, on the other hand, immediately scooped up a handful without regard to the lower temperature, and threw it to his older brother before laughing at his face when the ball had hit.

During that trip, Thor had been miserable, constantly freezing and only slowly getting used to the idea of snow as more than a concept, whereas Loki had taken it in good stride and had been only horrified at the thought of leaving it behind when their parents brought them home.

Jotunheim had always intrigued Loki, simply due to the fact snow and ice was all it consisted of. And even now, after he had seen and come to hate the realm, after he had met the creatures upon it, after that he had pushed himself to the point of genocide to purge them from his life, Loki was still enchanted by the snow.

It was understandable, especially now that they knew what ran through his veins.

"Aye, it is beautiful." He replied, before being forced by the rowdiness of outside to firmly shut the door behind him, leaving Loki alone once more.

\--

Pitch had been running when he felt it.

Running was not an uncommon activity for Pitch as of late, and nor was hiding or sneaking or, loathe he say it, cowering. He had come to accept that it was just the way his life was going to be for a little while longer.

Admittedly, he'd been doing a lot less running than he had several months before, when the Guardians teamed up to stamp their feet down on Pitch's schemes. Damn them all, the snivelling pathetic creatures. Back then, when the children stopped believing in him all at once, it was all Pitch could do to keep his previously loyal Fearlings off his scent, away from his trail, just so he could take a few moments to catch his breath.

And then New York had happened - whatever _had_ happened, since it still wasn't entirely clear - and Pitch had felt just that bit stronger for it. He was now actively able to keep his distance from his pursuers, and even slow down a little bit more if he felt the need.

The first thing he had done upon the sudden influx of fear among the humans that had filled him with so much pleasure and sparkling, golden power, was flee the miniscule planet Earth completely. There were only so many places to hide there, and he had long since run out of them. Meanwhile, there were other realms in the universe that were unknown to the Fearlings but familiar to Pitch. They were safer for him, therefore.

The thing about Fearlings that Pitch had always adored - something he still loved in them regardless of the fact they were now targeting him - was how they completely and wholly _devoured_ their victim. They didn't just want to kill Pitch, they wanted to _eat_ him. That didn't help calm the fear that drew them to the nightmare king, but it was the reason Pitch had been so taken by them back in the beginning. The darkness swallowed up everything eventually, after all.

He had been in the deep shadows of Muspelheim when they'd discovered him again. Muspelheim was a particularly dark place, assuming he avoided the fires, and also somewhere relatively secluded and empty, bar those who had evolved to deal with the intense heats. The Fearlings, more instinct-driven than Pitch, didn't like the glow of the ever-burning flames and therefore it was on that realm that Pitch had been safe for a while.

Until they had found the shadows he had cloaked himself in. Then he was back to running again.

Pitch should have been too far from Asgard to feel the sharp increase of fear, but it was enough of an unusual occurrence to stand out. Further, Pitch was hypersensitive to any form of terror due to how little he had immediate access to, and how pathetically drained his power was. Immediately, without a thought, Asgard was his newest direction. He had just enough spare magic to get there, but as soon as he arrived it was like a burst of fresh air; as if he'd been drowning, and now he'd suddenly rediscovered the surface of the water.

The Fearlings who'd followed him quickly turned heel and ran, but they were not so out of reach for Pitch's power to grab hold of their thrashing forms and squeeze them of life. Despite his love for these evil creatures, they had also tried to kill him. Shadows and fear were two things in this universe that never ran out. His Fearlings were expendable, and the next batch would be just as hungry.

The gods that lived in this universe, Pitch had always noticed, always felt things so _strongly_. Everything they did was different and more intense than the mortals, from their life-span to their emotional range, and they never did anything without putting all they had into it. That, fortunately, included their _fear_.

Another beautiful things about gods, especially the ones on Asgard who were warriors and battle-thirsty and angry, was that they were not used to feeling afraid. So, when they did, they had no way of coping beyond embracing it completely and panicking because of it. Therefore the world that Pitch had stepped into was teeming with everything he needed to very quickly shoot right back up to full power and more. Engines running full power at one-hundred and twenty percent. He felt absolutely _divine_.

"Loki, you scoundrel." He grinned broadly, observing the ruckus and realising, with no shortage of humour, what precisely had the Æsir all a fluster.

Snow. He could see some warriors cutting the flakes straight out of the sky in their alarm. It was _snowing_ on Asgard.

Pitch had relatively little chance to see this realm, and he'd certainly never seen Asgard under several inches of frost. He hadn't thought it capable of weather patterns, actually, which was probably why the hardened warriors were in such a tizzy over it.

Pitch flitted through the shadows, taking in their conversations and theories, and trying to find the source among them. He was certain it was Loki, because this was Loki's style all over. Relatively harmless in the long run, but amounting to maximum chaos in the short term. He would get in trouble with his father, he would not care, as usual, and the universe would continue on its cycle. That was the general overview of all Loki's pranks, and it only diverted from this usual path when something unanticipated caused everything to go heinously off-course.

Pitch had only ever seen a plan of Loki's go sour once, but it had been devastating to the clever god. Pitch couldn't say he sympathised, especially since the fear Loki had experienced made Pitch shiver with the sheer intensity of it, but he also understood that then was a time he should have felt bad for the prince.

Loki had survived the horrific ordeal, however, and continued to play his tricks and games regardless of history. Pitch really appreciated that about Loki; how his sense of humour was never squashed by how others didn't seem to get the joke.

Despite Pitch's thorough searching, Loki was nowhere amongst the townsfolk. It was only when Pitch had thought to start sneaking his way through the palace that he spotted something; something which put his theories to the death with naught but a glance in the right direction.

Because there was only one person _more_ likely to cause an impromptu snowstorm than Loki Odinson, but Pitch had dismissed the newest guardian from mind on account of the fact he _should_ have been on Earth.

The nightmare king was in two minds about approaching Jack Frost, whom he watched from the silent shadows as Jack laughed at the frantic fright he'd produced in these people. Despite himself, Pitch had to smile along with the little sprite.

The spirit was perched on a low rooftop, out of sight of the terrified locals. He waved his staff as the snow increased in its density, covering the alien planet faster than it had before. All it did was work up the citizens even more.

"Where are the Frost Giants?" They were screaming, looking around for legions of humongous blue creatures when they should have been looking out a singular white-haired, blue-eyed child, who was cackling gaily above their heads. Perhaps it was an accident which started it, as snow followed Jack as loyally as shadows did Pitch, but now the snowfall was only a game to the hyperactive guardian. The wayward little cretin.

"You've a talent for mischief, Jack." Pitch said, startling the winter spirit, who turned on him instantaneously with only violence in mind. The staff Jack clung to was now so easily a weapon and a shield, held securely in two hands across Jack's chest, just itching for a reason to be utilised. "But _this_ , however, is bordering on chaos. The amount of fear you've produced," Pitch shivered. "Delicious." He glanced to Jack, who snarled down at him.

In an instant Pitch was beside the youth, perched atop the roof next to him, glancing down upon Asgard and their panicking citizens. Jack's stance was just as defensive as before, balance shifting from foot to foot in preparation for either an attack or an avoidance of one. Smart boy.

"Pitch-" he said, only a word away from a threat, but the nightmare king had come to the edge of his patience.

"Oh, do put that down." Pitch scoffed, tired of the masculine display. "You can make a little snow, I can see that, but you'd have noticed by now how your powers are diminished here. It's a trade-off, you realise? You can be seen by everyone like you always wanted, but _they_ have the advantage."

"Why can they see us? Why here?"

"Magic." Pitch gestured around them, catching some of the snow and happily letting it swirl around his grey fingers. "Asgard is old, as is the magic contained therein. Older than the Man in the Moon's, at any rate. It therefore takes precedence, it gets what it desires, and an unseen threat is _not_ something the Realm Eternal wants."

"You seem to be doing okay." Jack pointed out, almost petulantly. "Your power seems as strong as ever."

"I work from fear, as I'm sure you remember, whereas you have only powers blessed from Tsar Lunar. He isn't here to help you this time, Jack."

"What are you doing here?" The winter spirit suddenly barked, irritated and made nervous by Pitch's words. _Perfect._

"A better question is what are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm looking for my father."

"Your father? Oh, of course. You were born, not made."

This seemed to make the guardian of fun pause, and his self-protective stance faltered slightly. "Where you made?" He asked, as if that would answer all his questions regarding why Pitch was evil. Foolish, idealistic child.

"Possibly. I don't recall. It was many years ago." He shrugged uncaringly, because it was also of no concern. "Have you found him? Your father, I mean."

"No."

"Do you even know what he looks like?"

" _Yes_." Jack defended his intelligence, and Pitch took a step back in a false display of surrender.

"Alright, alright, I believe you. No need to get huffy, Jack. I just want to help you."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. I always have." Which was completely honest. Every time Pitch paid more than a few seconds attention to Jack, he had been consumed by the boy and how he defied every expectation Pitch held for him. First, Jack had stayed with the guardians despite the fact he had no reason to, then he had showed such power, such promise. Pitch started to realise, after that, how alike the two of them were. He'd been so curious to learn about what made Jack pick the guardians over him despite the chaos he naturally caused that Pitch had offered him the memories he so coveted. Not without a price of course, and one that Jack ultimately didn't have to pay, but the thought had been there nevertheless.

And now was no different. Part of the bogeyman was curious to see what sort of a father, what sort of an Áss, had raised a child like Jack. Unbidden, an obvious answer came to mind; a god who had rather a habit of attempting to breed with several varieties of species, with almost constantly disastrous results. Another thing Pitch felt he should feel sympathy towards, had he the emotional capacity. He dismissed it however, because Loki hadn't, as far as Pitch was aware, had any children for several hundred years.

"Who's your father?" He prodded the winter spirit for, to no immediate success.

"I'm not telling you."

Pitch grinned, and opened his palms, looking as innocent as he could in his grey skin, his black robes, with his hawk-bright eyes, and his pointed teeth. "What can _I_ do to a god?" Quite a lot, but Jack didn't need to know that.

Suspiciously, with narrowed eyes and great reluctance, Jack considered this, before coming to a conclusion. Whoever it was, Jack felt he could take Pitch even among all this terror. Pitch was beginning to think he rather wanted to meet Jack's daddy more than just to try and scare the immortal to his grave.

"His name is Loki."

"You _are_  a Lokison?" Pitch hissed, rounding on Jack and eyeballing him, his tongue flicking around the final word like it was a delicacy. Because it most certainly was, Pitch could almost taste the opportunities on his tongue, and he had been oh, so wrong in his most hasty conclusions. "How intriguing."

"You know about my father?"

"You know, I can actually see it. You don't look like him, but there's definitely _something_ about you-"

"You know _my father_?" Jack stressed, pointing his staff at Pitch's throat. The nightmare king batted it away impatiently.

"Yes, Jack. Surprise. We've worked together a few times over the course of history. Strictly business, you needn't worry. Loki's always been talented at fear-rousing. Usually accidentally." Pitch admitted. "Not so much now. He did some fine work in New York. I have no idea what brought _that_ on, but it certainly helped to get me back on my feet."

"What do you mean 'work'? Do you know where he is?"

"I actually thought this was him," Pitch told the spirit, gesturing to the sky where the snow still swirled through the air and down on top of the agitated Æsir heads. In the distance, Odin All-Father was calling a gathering and the men and women were assembling, walking away from the rooftop where Pitch and Jack spoke. "It's very much like him."

"I know." Jack admitted, and Pitch was only then struck with the thought that Jack _lived_ with Loki. At one point in time Jack had become a guardian and lost his memories in the process, but for many years beforehand he would have inhabited the same household as the god of mischief, and Loki hadn't earned that name for no good reason.

Despite the fact Pitch knew Loki had belonged to many families over the centuries, he'd never stopped to think what that actually entailed. He'd never had to, since it was none of his concern, but now it hit him with some surprise. He realised right then and there that there were people who had existed over the course of time who had  _willingly_ chose to live alongside Loki Odinson. It was a wonder Jack's sanity had remained intact after the fact.

"As I said," Pitch eventually said slowly, finally answering one of the young guardian's questions. "I worked with him a long time ago. He needed assistance with something."

"What was it?"

"Irrelevant. You should ask him when you find him."

Jack tensed, obviously considering how wise it was to follow Pitch's advice. If he'd thought to ask directly Pitch would have happily told him how bad an idea it would be to remind Loki of that instance. Loki didn't like to think about it. None of them did, on Asgard. They were very ashamed. 

"Do you know where he is?" The child then reiterated, and Pitch shook his head.

"I was looking for him, but he is not in the town. I assume he's in trouble, so possibly in the cells. After all, what he did in New York was really, _really_ quite spectacular."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, where are you going?" Jack snapped, reaching out to grab his sleeve when Pitch turned to leave. Pitch stared sternly at the offending hand until Jack had the sensible notion to drop his hold, and Pitch thought to reward this moment of blinding brilliance with some insight which Jack would most certainly have use of in the near future. Because Pitch truly did like Jack _ever so_ much.

"Your name hold greats power, Jack Lokison. You will do well to remember that. When you see him, tell your father I said hi." Pitch winked, before chasing the shadows and disappearing from Jack's sight.

He lingered in the crowds, listening to the gossip and Odin's attempt at calming the crowds, before spying Thor slip from the palace doors with a deflated look about him. Only one person could consistently put such an expression on the thunder god's face. Perhaps Jack would recognise it too.

Pitch thought about going to search out Loki himself, but shook himself of the idea. There was little point whilst the mischievous creature was suffering his punishments, since those were the times when the other gods kept a close watch over him. He wondered how close Jack Frost would get before he was seized and taken before the entirety of Asgard for questioning. They did have a flare for the dramatic, these people. It was probably why Pitch had been so charmed by Loki in the first place.

He thought on his newest nugget of knowledge, and how much chaos it would cause to release the identity of a new Lokison into this restless crowd. Many of these people had never held the youngest prince in high regard, and his children even less so. There were words floating around about the creatures Loki had sired, and another one coming to light would make this panic over snow seem like mere play at fear.

But he dismissed that thought as well, simply because it would come out on its own eventually. Until then, however, it was something Pitch could use, keep close and twist to his own advantage if he had to. Jack was his enemy after all, and Loki had great potential to be should he one day feel that way inclined; a threat not quite so abstract now that there was family involved who most decidedly did _not_ have Pitch on his Christmas list. Therefore Pitch had to think to lay plans for protecting himself. He wasn't going to underestimate the tricky prince of Asgard, who'd always been a slippery one to keep hold of even before he'd grown cleverer with every mistake.

And it wasn't like knowing one or two things about his father was going to hinder his relationship with Jack any, either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Pitch. Pitch is like the flamboyant version of Loki.


	4. An Alien Among Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! You just amaze me with all these comments. I feel so spoiled. Thank you ever so much for the attention you're giving me, it means the world!

In his cell, hardly five metres by five, Loki was deep in his contemplation.

After his brother had abandoned him once more in the empty, windowless room, the ex-prince of had Asgard dropped to the floor, closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. With these motions he opened his other senses, reaching inwards in the absence of being able to reach outwards, and tasted the air Thor had let in with the open door.

It was frosty, frigid with foreign cold, but Loki knew it was not of Jötunheim. Despite what he had said to Thor, avidly and emotively, there was something about the snow of the frozen realm which called out to Loki deep within his bones. The ice of that world was in his blood, and as much as he could try to fight it, it remained. Unbrokenly, endlessly, passionately, once the ice had him it clung on to him with its claws. He was not able to scrub it away with his tattered memories, disregarded pasts and selective patricide. He was never to escape its reach, and hadn't been able to since he had first returned to that desolate wasteland.

This snow, however, whilst not Jötunheim born, was still familiar to him. Whilst it was not  as instinctive a knowledge, he had spent more winters on Midgard than he had elsewhere on the realms, and he would have to be a fool to mistake it. With the air was the scent of the fresh January breeze, or the morning upon which the children would wake and find a thick layer of snow to play in. A hassle to their parents, but a pleasure to the young ones. A day of fun in an otherwise dreary world.

It was the smell of discovery, of beauty; a new blank canvas upon the realm in which you could paint anything. Build anything. Do anything. Sledge down the steepest slopes, embed pictures to the ground, play at battle with snowballs, or skate across frozen waters.

To Loki, the odour had become too akin with loss for him to fully appreciate it. He much preferred the strange, slightly spicy tang of Vanaheim's winter, or even the divine explosion of flavour and rich array of smells that Loki had experienced every time he had visited Jötunheim.

The question was, therefore, not _where_ the snow had come from, but how had it gotten here. No doubt the idiots on the outside could not tell the difference, as Thor had shown by his beleaguered blusterings, so they would still be thinking along the wrong path. That was fine by Loki, who had always been secure in the knowledge he was constantly three steps ahead of everyone else on Asgard.

"What has brought the snow?" He asked into the empty room. An answer became immediately clear, and Loki would never admit to the amount of time he spent simply holding his first conclusion at the forefront of his mind: Jack. It was Jack. It had to be.

There were certain things in this cosmos that he battled with himself over; things he both desired and loathed the thought of, and this was one of them. It perhaps shot to the top of his list. Loki would never want his family to see him in such a state as he was now, Thor excluded,  considering he'd seen Loki in much worse positions. But not Jack. He had made sure all of his children remained ignorant to his weaknesses, for their sake as much as his.

Another reason for his detestation was that he didn't _want_ Jack here. It was dangerous. It hindered his plans. If Jack stumbled upon him here... Well, Loki wasn't going to consider the consequences.

Eventually, Loki simply dismissed the conclusion of the basis of improbability. How would the boy even get here? No, it was ridiculous.

However, that left him once more with no reason why the Midgard winter had suddenly appeared to visit Asgard's ever-sunny landscape.

He opened his eyes again and stared to the opposite wall, considering his now admittedly narrow options.

Well, he eventually decided, whatever he chose, he certainly wasn't going to get very far locked away in here.

Panic may have been to force his hand, but that didn't mean it made him reckless. Carefully, silently, he stood up, and knocked with great patience on his door.

\--

There was a great gathering of the Æsir in a wide, open city square, spanning further either side than Jack could immediately see.

As soon as he'd arrived on the new planet, the winter spirit had been blown away by the sheer expanse of it. Everything from the houses to the taverns to the monuments - not to get him started on the _palace_ \- was immense; individual structures reaching so far out, in some cases, that a decent-sized town could fit into them with room to spare. Burgess would certainly be lost within such unmitigated size.

Everyone in the city must have been there, since this meeting that was teeming with life. People were screaming up to the head god - Odin, Jack knew, since he _had_ paid attention when North had started to list off all the reasons why he shouldn't go to Asgard - demanding answers for the snow. Jack personally wanted answers for why everyone was so upset about it.

Something about Frost Giants, he heard through the shouts, but he didn't know what that meant. All he had been able to deduce was that the Æsir and the Jötnar weren't exactly on speaking terms.

Jack was watching Odin from the shadows, hyperaware of the fact he could be seen for once in his life, and this was one of the worst possible moment that he could be.

He knew about the Asgardian royal family. That was only obvious since his father was part of it. And therefore he knew of Odin, white-haired and wise, like a one-eyed version of North without the jolly present-giving side. Besides him was Thor, golden and strong as always. And there they were: Jack's uncle and grandfather. People Loki had rarely mentioned at home, and even then, only in a hissed whisper coupled with a pervasive tone of dread.

Odin was addressing the people, stating clearly that he did not believe it to be a Frost Giant attack. He didn't know what it was, but he was going to find out.

Panic almost erupted then and there - Jack's fault - when he accidentally brushed to close to someone, and they whirled around to find nothing. They wouldn't, since Jack was small, slight and light on his feet, and he had already found himself pressed back into the shadows.

But it was too late to take back the man's surprise, and certainly too late to change how he wiped out a sword and almost took head off the shoulders of the warrior standing beside him. Had it been anyone with slower reflexes, Jack would have inadvertently caused the death of an innocent.

His breath began coming up quicker, and he tried to calm his own heart which was beating far too fast. He didn't want people to start dying over a little bit of snow. That was just stupid.

He jumped up onto the rooftop, looking down at them all instead of being amongst them, since the single swing of a blade had made everyone that bit edgier. Had Odin not brought down his spear twice, silence following the unspoken command as a wave amid the crowd, perhaps the realm would have gone completely mad.

What had Pitch been saying to him earlier? That he had a talent for mischief? Well, Jack had always known that about himself; he'd learnt it from his father, who was, it seemed, literally the _god_ of it. And perhaps being among people like these who couldn't take a joke was what had driven Loki to Earth in the first place.

As he glanced around the crowd, taking in the aspects of a typical Áss, Jack noticed one thing stood out to him like a hit to the head: Loki was not one of these people.

Each of them held a weapon with such surety and anger, very similar to the way Loki did when riled, but what was different was in the way they had been so quick to call themselves to arms. Jack's father had always preferred words. If you can't speak to it, if you can't reason with it, only then should you pick up a blade.

_You can talk to anything, Jack. From people to animals to plants. Everything can hear you, can feel you, can talk to you. You just have to listen._

Abigail had rolled her eyes when Jack had echoed the lesson later when he was helping her prepare dinner. "Your father is a little strange, Jack. He says things in different ways because he's not from around here. It's not in a bid to confuse you. What he means is that God can hear you, and you should respect nature as you respect Him."

Jack now knew Loki did not mean that, because Loki was a god from Germanic pagan faith who could argue away any amount of plight with a few select words, and when he had encouraged Jack to try honing his social skills to deadly effect was because Jack's leg had, at that point in his life, only gotten worse, so words were likely to be his only defence for the rest of his days.

That hadn't happened, of course, and Jack was coming to realise there was something supernatural in his healing of his lame limb as well. He rather suspected knowing the truth about his father would explain away many other miracles which had graced his family like they touched no other.

The kooky, wizened old ladies always used to call the luck which followed the family of Loki sorcery. And it was of kind. It was simply not of the satanic sort they suspected.

Speaking of which, Jack couldn't see a glimmer of sorcery about the place. There were a few women with staffs, but the only magic seemed to be on an elemental kind; instinctive if nothing else. Perhaps that was what scared them the most: Jack's effortless display of his powers in a place where magic was not considered common.

Immediately, Jack could see how his father would be considered as different here as he had done in Burgess. He could also remember once telling Loki that he had wanted to see his home. Loki had told him he wouldn't like it. Undoubtedly, this was why.

As far as Jack could see, here was a land of warriors. People sturdy in their own belief of strength and agility in war, and therefore rocked by anything that they could not explain. Things like snow where there shouldn't be snow, and an unseen threat where nothing similar had happened before. Not here, not in Asgard. _The Realm Eternal_ , that's what North had called it. A place that never changed. Nothing happened here, and anything that did caused panic on a tremendous scale.

Loki had always hated the boredom found in lazy days. Lazy centuries must have made him itch.

Jack looked back to Odin, disappointed but unsurprised in the absence of his father among the crowd. He knew Loki wouldn't have been there, but it didn't stop Jack from wanting him to be. It would have been too neat had Jack found his answer right away, and real life didn't work like that. In a way, it was a relief. If it was hard now, it wouldn't be later.

Odin was still talking to the crowds, answering questions, calming nerves and trying to keep the situation under control. Jack's eyes shifted to the right and found the space where Thor had been standing suspiciously empty.

Curious, and not particularly interested in what the All-Father had to say, Jack cast his gaze around in an attempt to find his uncle, blond and big and completely lost amid Norse gods, most of whom fit the same description effortlessly.

He felt a presence loomed behind him directly after. Hands tried to grab him as he jolted away, using his size and statue to weave around the hulking figure suddenly attacking.

Jack shot up into the sky, still able to utilise the assistance of these foreign winds, though their hold of him was not as stable as the rushes of home. Nor were they as fast. It was actually a little depressing; like experiencing your first rollercoaster, before then being told that you had to go back to riding the teacups. However, they took him up into the air, further away than Thor, and _of course_ it was Thor, could reach him, but it also drew all attention his way.

"What is that?"

"A child?"

"Well, that's just great." Jack snarled, heading back the way he came in an attempt to escape the evil-eyes of his newest audience.

"He controls the weather!" One called out, correctly identifying him as the culprit of the snow as the wind swept him away, and immediately they were screaming for his capture. Luckily, all the way down below on the streets, they were also too slow to keep up.

And then there was Thor, who had clambered over the rooftops and was shooting after him with the aid of his famed hammer. Jack had seen the footage of Mjölnir at work in New York, and realised belatedly that if Thor really wanted to catch him there would be no real chase. Not at the speeds this new breeze was taking Jack at.

"Jackson!" Thor called out, ahead of the rest of his kind and nearer to the winter spirit than the guardian would have liked. "Jackson, wait! Please!"

Jack did stop then, hesitant and scared but ever-interested, curious in how Thor knew his name. Jack knew Thor, of course, but the god shouldn't be able to return the favour. Jack had not been seen by anyone but the guardians for more than three-hundred years, and that was a fact only just starting to change. Thor therefore had no chance of recognising him from sight alone.

Then what was it?

Then he remembered a meeting at the SHIELD helicarrier, and Thor identifying his presence even when he was invisible. Thor and Loki at least seemed to be able to sense him, feel him, recognise him from that alone. Perhaps it was a family thing. Because they were related maybe Thor could just _tell_.

He stepped down, lightly coming to his feet two rooftops from the blond god, and he stood with his staff at the ready, poised and wary, as Thor approached him with raised hands and careful steps.

"I'm Thor," he said, and Jack nodded, smiling slightly.

"I know. You know me, too."

"Yes." They were on the same rooftop, and the thunderer was smiling at him gently, happily, like he'd just found something he thought he'd lost forever. "Jackson," He said, coming forward as if to... what? Embrace him? Or hit him round the head really hard with that hammer? Jack wasn't taking any risks and kept the staff pointed at the blond. It pulled Thor up short.

"You're Loki's youngest son." He said factually, and Jack nodded before the words registered.

"I'm sorry, what? _Youngest_? I thought I was the oldest." But Thor paid him no mind.

"You were the spirit. The one who came to see Loki. I did not imagine you to be so-" He glanced his eye down Jack, from the tip of his hair to the end of his toes, and the boy knew what he was thinking.

"Yeah, I don't look like him, I know. Even Pitch said it."

" _Pitch_?"

"Oh, right, yes. You might want to be worried about that."

"We can deal with Pitch Black." Thor soothed, hands and posture still open, even as the roar of the crowd drew closer. Thor didn't seem bothered by it, ignoring it in favour of making conversation with his nephew. "With your father incarcerated, however, it is unlikely he will stay. He is of no concern."

"Wait, what? Repeat that, would you?"

"I assume you mean the part where Loki has been locked away until further notice."

"That means forever, right?" Jack took from the sad lilt of Thor's lips. "You're locking him up _forever_? Why?"

"You saw what he did on your realm."

"Yeah, but _forever_? I mean, that's a long time to you guys."

"He killed many people. We are worried for what he would do if he were kept free."

Jack deflated, sighing with a heavy heart, because he got it. He understood. They'd been thinking the same thing when the guardians wondered whether they should have helped Pitch all those months ago instead of leave him to the mercy of the Fearlings. But even if they had, what would they have done with him? Tried to keep him under lock and key? Where? For how long? What would happen if he broke out? Or should they try to rehabilitate him? Would that even work?

Punishment was a hard thing to dole out, and no easier to watch. Going by Thor's shattered expression, he had wanted this for Loki no more than Jack did. It must be awful to have to decide what fate to bestow upon your own family, and then keep yourself to it once it was decided.

Especially now, with the lost son coming to look for his father. Even Jack, appalled by what he was hearing and angry at something that wasn't quite injustice, could only imagine how much more hell he was imposing on Loki's older brother by simply being here.

But he wouldn't apologise. Understanding was not the same as sympathy. Factually, Jack was aware of the difficulties. Emotionally, he was still trying to catch up.

"Can I see him?" He pleaded, because if nothing else he wanted to look Loki in the eye and tell him he was okay. Jack knew how his father used to worry constantly about him and Emma. He'd always been so protective.

The crowd was drawing close now, and Thor turned to the noise. Controlling it, keeping it slow, Odin All-Father led them upon a magnificent, if slightly creepy, eight-legged horse. He glanced up to where Thor spoke with Jack and nodded minutely, signally for something. The blond turned back to Jack and gestured across an expanse of rooftops that headed towards the golden palace in the distance.

"First, it might be prudent to introduce yourself to my people. They do not take surprises well."

Jack smirked, thinking back to the first few flakes of snow and the almost instantaneous hysteria it provoked. "Yeah, I got that."

Thor paused a moment, just to look at him. Jack shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, snapping his fingers twice - and causing a few wisps of ice to splash in Thor's face - to get the god's attention back to the present.

"You _are_ like him." He nodded, seemingly appeased, and Jack smiled weakly.

"Déjà vu. I literally just had this conversation."

Thor started to make his way north, his heading pretty obvious, looming bright and daunting over the horizon, but Jack caught his arm with a freezing hand and stopped the man short.

"Hey, if you could _not_ tell anyone who my dad is." He asked, remembering what Pitch said. Though he was hesitant to take any advice from the nightmare king, this was one thing he felt he could trust. North had warned him of pretty much the same, along with Bunny and Tooth and Sandman - though Sandy's cautioning had been harder to deduce since it had been expressed only in another round of charades, and Jack was absolutely appalling at that game.

Thor just nodded solemnly, stating he had thought as much. "I've already made a promise, Jackson, to your father many years ago."

Jack remembered that too, in the forest when he was hardly five. If he had held it so long, Jack trusted Thor would continue to keep his tongue to himself.

"One more thing," he grabbed Thor again, very seriously keeping his blue eyes locked onto Thor's. "Do I really have other siblings?"

Thor eyed him. "Of course you do. Has your father never told you?"

"No. He didn't even tell me he was an alien prince. Not that I'm surprised," Jack admitted. "I mean, mama was kinda iffy about things like that. It was her religion." He explained to Thor's expression. "She'd have freaked out."

Thor nodded, not really empathetic but seemingly on the verge, before nudging Jack in the right direction. Below them, Odin had started to herd people in the same direction, still on that strange horse, directing and commanding and being pretty intimidating. It wasn't that he was doing anything unkingly, and Jack had certainly met some kings in his time, but this one also wasn't just a king. He was a father of two children, one of whom was lost to him and the other left in mourning. It sounded pretty familiar, actually.

He was also Jack's grandfather, and that scared Jack more than anything else. This family of his, absent for so long, was suddenly being rediscovered by the cupful.

"You can ask me any other questions that bother you." Thor suddenly offered. Jack was not shy enough to refuse such an opportunity, but his queries mostly pertained to the weather and why people were so upset about these Frost Giants.

Thor looked at him sadly, which Jack didn't understand, but he dutifully explained.

\--

The first thing they made Jack do was confront Odin. And half of Asgard. Minus the horse, but still with his very sharp spear and crazy horned helmet, he was no less intimidating than before. Luckily, Jack didn't take to intimidation kindly and would rather spit in its face than comply.

"Who are you?" The All-Father loomed over him, high upon a podium, menacing and ominous. Jack thought this was all a little over the top. What had he done? Brought a little snow? Freaked a few people out? From what he'd heard from Thor on the trip here, that wasn't even Loki on a bad day.

"Jack Frost, the spirit of winter." He introduced nevertheless, swooping low in a bow which, he hoped, displayed exactly the right balance of respect and noncompliance. A cheeky gesture which showed that he was willing to play nice, but not promising to be one-hundred percent serious about this entire thespian procedure. "At your service."

"Where did you come from?"

"Earth."

"And how did you get here?"

"Nicholas St. North helped me. You guys know him, right?"

"You are a Guardian of Midgard?"

Jack nodded, leaning against his staff lazily. "Yep."

"Not for very long, one can assume. You still have some learning to do."

"That cut me deep. You're Odin, right? God of gods. What am I doing here?"

"You have caused panic amongst my people."Odin pointed out, looking to the outside where the snow was still dancing in time with the breeze. "I would like you to explain why."

Jack shrugged, because there was no real reason other than it seemed like a funny idea at the time.

"You guys are really jumpy to freak out over _snow_." He pointed out. "I get that you and the Frost Giants don't  get on, but come on."

"It is not just snow we are scared of, winter spirit." A dark-haired woman stepped forward, in sensible armour with a sword strapped to her waist. She looked particularly unimpressed at him, which was saying something considering Odin's expression. "There are other hostiles here who can bring the snow."

Jack didn't need to be a genius to figure that riddle out. He didn't even need to see the All-Father's face to identify her meaning. All he needed really was the twitch of Thor's mouth as he tried not to frown to severely.

"And you are?"

"Sif. I am the goddess of war." She announced, inclining her head respectfully in the presence of the All-Father,King of Asgard. Jack stiffly returned the gesture.

"Right. But I thought you had Loki locked up, snug as a bug. Surely you can't be worried about him."

Her eyes flashed and murmurs started up again in the grand hall. Some concerned Loki, but many were to do with the spirit from Midgard whom seemed to know them so well. Jack just hoped Thor would keep to his word and not tell them how precisely Jack knew of their little royal family drama.

"I would worry about Loki if he were trapped forever on Lyngvi." She returned lowly. "He is not one to keep in a cage."

"Yeah, I know that." Jack had seen the SHIELD report. He had gone out of his way to scrape up every single snippet of information on his father he could get his hands on. After reading the file twice over, the fact he hadn't gone out on a rampage of his own was a miracle attributed mostly to Baby Tooth. She had a particular calming effect on Jack that no one in three-hundred years had managed to replicate. Emma was the only one besides her who could do the same.

"Stand down, Sif." Thor commanded, and the goddess allowed it, briefly looking apologetic. She was talking about his brother after all. That she was allowed to speak against Loki in the presence of his family was unusual, but no one else seemed to notice.

Thor, it seemed, Jack considered as he eyed him, had not told the guardian something. The omission, now rippling all around him like a Mexican wave that somewhere held the truth within it, was easy to point out, but harder to define.

"Okay, so you were serious about the forever part," Jack addressed his uncle pointedly. "But it doesn't really matter because he's going to break out?"

"He will not escape for a long time." Odin informed him smartly. "It was Queen Frigga herself who imprisoned him."

" _Seriously_?" Jack said, trying to imagine the worst punishment Abigail had ever inflicted upon him. He would probably say the one time he'd ruined all her mushrooms in a food fight with Emma in the middle of winter. She had ordered him to go find more in the freezing cold. Had his father not found him on his way home from work, Jack may have stayed out there all night, worried that he hadn't gathered enough to see them through the season. He'd thought his mother would still be mad at him when they'd walked through the door.

He had been wrong. Abigail had scolded him for staying out so long, calling him foolish, but she did it all whilst her worried arms were wrapped tightly around him. She had been on the verge of tears. _I didn't know what had happened to you_ , she said wetly. _The weather suddenly got so bad and I couldn't find you._

Loki had been furious with her. He'd furious with all of them for what they'd done, but that was just a parent's way. Everyone had forgiven each other eventually.

Following this recollection, Jack tried to imagine what it would feel like if Abigail ordered him to chains and straight to a cell without so much as a welcome home. He was overcome with such sadness that he was almost glad his father had seemed to have gone mad, else he truly would have fallen apart within his distress. Of all his family, it had been Frigga he spoke of with the most tenderness.

With it, Jack's resolve was strengthened: Find him. Get him away. Find him _now_.

"If she did it," he said weakly to the king, to his grandfather. To the man who'd so quickly let his own son be locked away. "Then I guess you've got nothing to worry about. It was just a joke, the snow, by the way. I didn't mean to upset anyone."

"Yes, you did." Odin had known him for all of five minutes and could already spot a lie, even from all the way up there. He had Jack's character down pat and aiming to not upset someone went against every code the sprite lived by. "You perhaps did not intend to hurt anyone, but you certainly intended the havoc caused."

"What can I say? It's in my blood." He smirked. Thor's solemn face dropped a few more notches, whilst Odin raised an eyebrow.

He looked as if he were about to speak again, but he stopped suddenly. For a while, the hall thick with tension, the All-Father stared blindly into the middle of the hall, his eye distant, before turning to see a golden-haired woman step out from the side of the hall.

She was flanked by harassed looking guards who were bruised, battered and quite thoroughly beaten. Whatever had happened to them, it had certainly not been anything good. It was worse than what Jack had done with his snow, and he knew all at once he was no longer the main focus of attention.

The woman spoke to Odin softly, all the while glancing periodically to Thor who was not close enough to hear, but clever enough to put the pieces together. She seemed particularly distracted, and Jack, like his uncle, didn't have to guess why. The spirit wondered how well they'd take it if he left right now, since, if he was correct in his assumptions, he no longer had anything to stay for.

Odin nodded once when she had finished, turning away and confronting the hall, but his single eye was trained solely on Jack. Jack felt like he had committed an unforgivable crime, despite the fact his conscience, for a change, was completely clear. In that vivid expression was such suspicion and fury that Jack wanted to run for home as fast as the winds could carry him.

"Loki _has_ escaped." The god of gods told every avidly listening ear within the vast expanse of the grand hall.

If Pitch thought Jack was a rabble-rouser he obviously hadn't met Odin on a good day, since, with his words, the hall descended into absolute chaos. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please feel free to comment and talk to me and ask questions or whatever. You all make my day.


	5. Dance with the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plot is thiiiis close to being sorted out. Which is absolutely perfect, because I jumped into this blindly. I am so excited to write it, and this is kinda where we're getting started. Enjoy!

In the library of the palace there were books and scrolls and tablets on everything under the moon and sun; all the knowledge of the Æsir and Vanir could be found here, along with texts from the elves and the dwarves. There were little that could not be discovered, and no secret left hidden for long if one were to browse a while between the endless, loaded shelves.

In the darkest sections of the vast expanse of a room were shadowed corners which held lore and half-forgotten prophecies, left alone and abandoned out of fear and heartbreak. Lives had been ruined within the dusty tomes sequestered away and dreaded; people had died because of them. Too much blood had been split over words discussed and argued about, and rationality fled wise men in the face of them. People rarely came here simply to read. Here was only for the most serious of business; business which may, potentially, help save as many lives as the prophecies had taken.

There was where the guards eventually discovered Frigga. Two had already been sent by Odin, against the unseen, potential Frost Giant threat. These, however, were not of the same bunch. The new men requested to find her had been sent from someone else.

She had business here. She had to have, else she would not be flicking through pages after pages so sharply. She was someone who had personally lost too much, and would rather burn this section to the ground than peruse the contents of this particular shelf for pleasure's sake.

In truth, it had been Loki who had sent for her. All the focused, terrifyingly green attention which had been trained solidly in her studies shifted up to the warrior retelling the prisoner's message, which had been shouted through the sturdy door they were keeping him behind.

"Prince Loki demands you, my lady," he told her, attempting not to cower under the sudden, all-encompassing gaze of the queen. "He says it's urgent."

"It is a trick," Frigga dismissed, sounding saddened but not surprised by her son's attempts to twist the heads of his family. "He means simply to either annoy you or escape. Or both."

"But he was insistent-"

"He is a prisoner." She snapped, closing the book sharply and turning her glare upon the soldier before her. "That he should be demanding anything is nothing short of ridiculous."

"But, your highness, he sounded distraught."

She shook her head, appalled. "For how many years have you known Loki? Perhaps not as long nor as well as I, but surely enough. He is a master manipulator and you would do well to ignore him."

"We would have, your majesty," the guard admitted. " _Normally_. But he spoke of many things, one being the snow."

Frigga glanced outside to where it was gaily swirling across the windows. She could feel the chill of the altered weather in the breeze, and here, in the large and dusty library, it hit especially hard. She was too dignified to show her reaction to the lowered temperature, however. She would not display weakness in front of these idiots who may even open the cell to Loki's cage if he so much as asked nicely enough. And Loki, despite popular opinion, was more than capable of utilising his manners.

"The snow? What would he know of the snow?"

"He says he knows the cause as no one else would." The guard elaborated nervously, pinned under the disapproval of his queen. "He mentioned a name: Jackson."

Within these many weeks since her youngest son, so lost for so long, had returned home in shackles, Frigga had been keeping a lid on her emotions, if only so she need not have to feel them. But now, she could hardly help it. Her son was asking to see her, talking of snow and his own mislaid child, whom he had mourned for so many years.

She recalled the days after Loki lost little Jackson, who had hardly even been an adult by human standards, never mind those of Asgard. So young and tragic, and Loki had not been able to bear it. He had run home and into her arms, a mess of distress and anger and determination to get his son back, blinded by his resolve and broken by his loss.

Even worse - after almost a year of constant searching, peeking in every crevice, stalking every lead, running down every pathway, Loki had no more found him than he had Fenrir who was being deliberately kept from his eye.

He had always turned to Frigga for help, advice and comfort when it came to his children - he had made her swear to never breath a word of Jackson and Emma to Odin until the time was right. Now was not that time.

She didn't know why Jackson was involved, and she was hyperaware of the fact this could be all a ploy to get her to the cage for whatever reason he could concoct. However, master manipulator or not, she could hardly refuse him now.

"Be careful," she said, taking the book she held between her fingers gently as she stood and let some of the assembled guards lead the way to the cage. "He is a skilled fighter."

"He is without magic, my lady," the closest (and youngest) warrior said to her, smiling. He was a golden-haired, bright-eyed eager lad, who was half the age of Loki. He was strong, broad and confident, which had served him well so far. Frigga could only hope it would continue to do so.

"That," she told him factually. "Does not mean he is not dangerous. Say I took the mighty Mjölnir from Thor. Would you wrestle him then?"

"Thor is the mightiest of gods, your highness," the boy replied, polite and pleasant even when her own tone was on the wrong side of sharp. "I would no sooner wrestle him unarmed than I would a Frost Giant."

"Then I would advise against thinking to take Loki on unarmed as well, young soldier."

"I am not unarmed, your grace." He gestured to his array of weapons, both long-range and short, efficient and on-hand and well-loved. He was obviously a master of them all, from the knives to the sword to the bow and arrow strapped to his back.

"No." She said agreeably, and for a moment felt some of his self-belief seep into her and poison the doubt infecting the back of her mind.

"The prince will, should he make any attempt to get away."

"It would be foolish of him." She reassured herself, along with the other men listening in around her. "He does not act on foolish thoughts." He had learnt that from last time, when he had played an unwise prank on the Lady Sif. Loki would not make the same mistake twice.

As they approached, two other soldiers stood to attention, moving from where they had been pressed against the wall and to the centre of the room. It did not escape Frigga that the proximity between them and the door to Loki's cell decreased with the action, as if before she had entered the room they had attempted to keep as far from him as they could without abandoning their posts.

"What has he been saying?" She asks them softly, but it was not a kind gesture. She did not care about the things he may have spoken to the guards for their sake as much as it was curiosity of how much he revealed in those words. She would rather not risk falling into one of his plans by actually talking to him if she could help it.

"Nothing, your highness," the men said, bowing shortly before gesturing to the doors. "He will only speak to you."

Of course he would. It was too much to hope that Loki would be bored enough to waste his words on small matters such as the guards. Not when he had a bigger game to play with her.

The men were looking at her from under their helmets, and she turned to the door. With only a small incline of her head, all the men were in front of her or flanking her, drawing their weapons and poising themselves. The one closest - the man who had most recently spoken - steadily approached the door and unlocked it.

Behind the wood Loki stood, tall and dark and statue-still, staring upon the man with a perfectly trained expression, allowing not a peek of emotion to slip through his mask. Immediately, before the soldier could even lash out by aid of instinct, Frigga's youngest son had taken the man by the throat and thrown him to the ground.

Everyone stared at the prone figure, lying motionless upon the stone. They may have even wondered why he was not getting up were it not for the distorted shape of his neck. Loki had not simply broken it, but he had _crushed_ it.

And suddenly, the second heir of Odin was a larger threat than any of them had accounted for.

They were all so blinkered, in Asgard, by the notion that Thor was the strength and Loki was the magic. They held on to the image that younger of the two was slight, fair in skin and soft in muscle, preferring words to blades, and long-distance to short; anything to keep him away from the thick of the fight. Magic, knives, anything that he could throw - they were weapons sooner utilised in Loki's arsenal than a sword or an axe or a hammer. He was witty, spry, and distressingly clever, but he was not a fighter, nor a brawler, nor capable of taking on seven armed warriors of Asgard on his own; not when they were men trained by Thor and Odin and Týr himself. Or, so they had thought.

Frigga watched in silent horror as her son proved them all wrong, kicking some to his feet, bleeding but breathing, whereas others he permanently sent to Valhalla. They tried their best, these men playing at warriors, but Loki had lived too many lives, been too hardened by his brother, his father, his adventures and his mistakes to be anything but as mighty and equal to Thor himself. Coupled with that the new found knowledge of his true form and genetics, Loki was very well one of the most dangerous of them all.

When it came to the last three standing - Loki, Frigga and the boy she had conversed with on the way here - there was no contest. Whilst the golden haired warrior jumped to her defence, Loki had already knocked the feet from under her and lashed out an elbow into his face. He punched the boy in the gut, the blow rippling through the armour he was as if it were made of nothing more than the delicate material of Frigga's opal-coloured dress. It send the blond man to wheezing, coughing and hunching over in a vain attempt to protect himself.

"Know your place," he hissed, as the soldier attempted to retaliate with a weak wave of his knife, but Loki divorced him from it, appreciating the deadly curve of the wicked point, before embedding it in the child's stomach.

He then turned to her, taking her head in his hands, his face twisted in unrecognisable rage, and she could do nothing to defend herself. Her own hands encircled his wrists, nails digging into his skin in a silent plea, but he seemed not to notice. His eyes were blazing, furious and demented, and it would take a mere twist of his wrists to dispatch the last of his foes standing in the way of his freedom.

She knew it had been a trick, and wished she had wiser men at her side. Men like Thor, who could win in a fight against his brother, or Odin who was indefinitely powerful. Men who knew Loki, and who were able to read him as she was. She should have been more persuasive on her way down here with those men, and _insist_ they be more wary of Loki's ability. Better than that - she should have never left the library at all.

She met Loki's eyes, the same colour as hers and made that way deliberately by Odin on the day he found the child in Jötunheim. In them she saw nothing that held her son - not like when he came home. Even through the terrible things he said to her, the way he threatened her, spat at her, denounced her, there was always Loki behind the alien front, and she had convinced herself that made everything worse.

She was wrong.

At least when Loki had been cruel, he was still present. What she was confronted with now was a mindless, distraught, shattered and instinctive creature whose only impulse was to run. To escape. To get away. Wherever he had been, she had thought him safe of the torments the universe had to offer. She had been wrong about that, too.

And then, just as she thought he had stretched out the moment too long and would end her life then and there, he was _back_. He blinked twice and returned, glancing around to his mess before looking to where he held her tightly between his hands.

He didn't let go of his gripping hold, but his features shifted and his eyebrows twitched. He swooped down to where she kneeled before him, bending himself in half to press his lips to the top of her head.

"My son is here, and he brought the snow." He whispered, lightly shifting her hair with his breath. She could not move, her limbs stiffened with fright, so listened avidly to his quiet voice, hardly a decibel above silence. "I must leave immediately."

Her hands shifted from his wrists to his arms, electrified with panic and grief. She did not want him to go away, not again and not now and not ever; part of the reason why she had chosen imprisonment over any other form of punishment. This way, she knew where he was. She knew he was safe. She could not lose him again. She gripped him tightly, eyes watering as she bit on her lip to keep from speaking. The silence was heavy around them, broken only by sporadic pained gasps or sob from the bodies littered around them. Neither paid them any mind. It was a soundless void between them, and the unspoken rules dictated only he could interfere with the hush.

He glanced to the book she had dropped at her side, and could seemingly recognise the tome. His face darkened, but his tone did not as he kicked it aside roughly and held her closer.

"I'm doing this for _you_. For _all_ of you." They were words that sounded rehearsed, fretted over and altered, the final syllable getting caught on his tongue. He stumbled over it, much unlike him, before drawing away kissing her firmly where he had been resting his lips.

"Look after him," he said softly, and Frigga nodded slowly. Of course she would. She'd do anything for him, her tragic, brilliant, glowing, terrifying son, who was walking away from her again. She grabbed his hand, and he turned for just a moment, simply to look upon her as sadly as she gazed up at him.

Their hands dragged away from one another inch by steady inch, until she was left leaning out to him and he had turned his back. It was only then, when he had disappeared around a corner and gone once more from her life, she thought to care about the men he had destroyed in his wake.

The poor child who had been so self-assured was long gone, having bled out from a vicious and deliberately fatal wound whilst Loki had stood and embraced his mother. To the side, four men were still breathing; a majority left living which Frigga had not expected. It was, she supposed, a pleasant surprise. Nicer would have been a complete survival rate, but she had seen the look in Loki's eyes from the moment the door had opened, and then again when the book of prophecies had drawn his attention. That she had lived, even after that, was a miracle from the ancestors.

There were certain words in that book which pertained to many things, some of which were past and some of which were yet to unfold. Loki knew the stories well, and had almost destroyed the book in his rage on several marked occasions. Frigga was not surprised - some of the things it said had pushed her to the limits of her patience as well.

And then there was the snow. It still fell from the skies, but Frigga felt Odin had other concerns now. Whether it was Jackson who brought the snow - though how and why were still unclear enough to suggest perhaps the madness had a fuller control over her youngest than she initially believed - Loki's escape was now the immediate priority. Unless the child had returned to assist his father, which was frighteningly possible, the freak weather patterns would have to be put on hold.

But then, Loki had asked her to look after him. He had certainly meant his son, since the context would allow for no other conclusion, and anyone else Loki cared about were not the type who needed the protection Frigga offered. Why would he ask that if the child were a part of Loki's escape?

Either way, it was a question saved for later. For now, she needed to gather up the injured and find her husband, and then her youngest son.

\--

Whatever it was they were accusing Jack of, he wasn't about to cave to their glares and shouts. Instead, he put up his hands and looked Odin directly in the eye. "I didn't do it."

He was grabbed by the collar and pulled away, Thor looking particularly irate as he yanked his nephew away from the crowds that were starting to spill from the sidelines to the central floor where Jack had been forced to stand alone afore the king. They were screaming now, yelling for him to explain himself, and freaking out more about Loki's escape than about the snow. Which, considering what Loki had done to New York, was probably reasonable.

Odin, Sif and the woman with her beaten guards ran from the room following Thor, along with other colourfully-clad men who made sure the large doors were slammed closed on the irrational crowd. They then ran down the hall and were relocated in another large room, obviously designed for eating and smaller conference rather than the grand audience of the entirety of Asgard as before.

It was still bright and golden and glittering even in the dim shadows of the snow-clouds, but with the ever-lit candles lining the walls, something about here felt more homely, welcoming and cosy. Like coming out of the cold and into a warm hut. Jack had only recently rediscovered how wonderful that feeling was.

"It really wasn't me." He said as all of the new company rounded on him. "I was _right here_."

"We do not know of the extent of your powers." Sif accused sharply, with nods from the three men behind her. To the side Thor stood, arms crossed and conflicted, whilst Odin looked on, ever suspicious. And then there was the golden-haired woman, obviously Frigga, who seemed as ruffled as her men without nearly as much blood about her as them. She was watching him quietly, calculatingly, evaluating whatever she saw of him with too much depth of understanding to make him feel comfortable. She knew more than she let on, he could tell.

"Neither do I," Jack admitted, referring to his magic. 300 years and he was still learning new tricks. It seemed like it was every day that another useful and strange memory encouraged Jack to try using his powers in new ways. "But what I mean is that I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good."

It was very clear no one, except maybe Thor, believed him. That wasn't a surprise, since Jack was half-wondering whether the snow _did_ assist Loki in some way. Locked down or not, Loki could probably still use the enchantments within Jack's moon-gifted talent to twist to his own purposes. His father was a powerful sorcerer, after all, as everyone kept reminding him.

"Perhaps Pitch Black was involved?" Thor suggested, and Jack jumped upon it, nodding.

"He is the type. _And_ he was here earlier. I spoke to him."

"Pitch Black is not often seen away from Midgard." Odin pointed out.

"We chased him out a little while back," Jack explained, trying to keep to the facts rather than dive head-first into that whole mess again. He was still incredibly torn over the proper treatment of Pitch; they had done all they had could, technically, but Jack always felt like he should have made more of an effort to find him. On the other hand, he really had no clue where to start. At least when he came to find Loki he had a solid lead. "He tried to take over, but we weren't about to let him. You don't touch the kids on Earth because they're under our protection."

Despite the fact they knew he was a guardian, they all hesitated. They took a moment to compare this to the idea he had purposefully come to break Loki out with only the most hostile of intents. Well, he _had_ meant to break his father out, but he hadn't meant any harm. No more than what a little snow could cause, anyway.

Frigga stepped forward suddenly, shifting attention from Odin and Jack to her and Jack, and she stared at him hard.

After a long, tense moment, Jack politely tilted his head, the same deliberately cheeky bow he'd offered to her husband before the hall. "Your highness," he addressed her, hoping to prompt something in return. She appeared as if she'd like to spurt droves, monologues, rants galore, but was biting on her tongue to hold them back.

"Your name?" She asked eventually, having been absent for that part of the previous interrogation.

"Jack Frost."

"I see. You are of Midgard?"

"Born and raised."

"How old are you, Jack Frost?"

Jack shrugged, thinking back and having long since lost track of any specifics. "About three-hundred and twenty, I guess. Give or take."

"And what are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Tourist. Came to see the sights, take some photos, bug some locals."

"You are one short of your goal, then," she pointed out, and if he didn't know better Jack would have sworn there was a smile in her voice. He glanced to Thor, wondering if he was making things up, just to see the thunder god turn his ever-frowning expression upon his mother. So, no, Jack wasn't imagining anything. Frigga was truly amused by this, and quite obviously keeping a secret.

Did she know? Was that it? But if she did, wouldn't she have told Odin?

"Why are you really here, Jack?" He noticed that she wasn't about to let the subject go with only a slither of a joke to replace the truth. Likely, that was one too many years of Loki resorting to the exact same avoidance manoeuvre. Jack's mother had sussed that one out before Jack was even born.

"Family business," he returned after glancing to Odin's stern and unyielding face. "I promise you I had nothing to do with Loki escaping-"

"I know, child." She cut across him softly. "It was my fault that my son was able to flee his cell."

"Really? How?" Jack couldn't help but ask, and he wasn't the only one. Thor likewise may enquiring words, whilst the four warriors looked as if they were itching to ask their own questions. Odin, along with the soldiers who were still oozing blood, were the only ones who weren't confused by this turn of events.

"He attacked us," she gestured to the bleeding men. "Three of us died."

"Oh."

Frigga seemed to take pity on him and his expression, reading him as if he were transparent. It wasn't unlike how Loki used to treat him. "He was unharmed in the scuffle." She told the room, as if she weren't looking specifically to Jack. "Perhaps Heimdall had some luck in capturing him. It is unclear how he expects to leave the realm without his magic."

"Hey, don't look at me." Jack defended, holding out his hands when eyes twisted back to him suspiciously. "I've only got one ticket out of here, and it's with me." He checked quickly just to make sure, patting at his pocket to ensure the snow-globe he'd stolen from North was safe.

"Good." Thor nodded, before gesturing to the four healthy warriors that had followed the family in. "We'll take these men to the healing rooms, and then we shall look for Loki. Jack-"

" _I'd_ like to talk to Jack Frost." Frigga interrupted, coming to loop her arm through Jack's cold one. Thor eyed her warily. "We're safe, Thor." She told him, staring him deep in his eyes to convey a silent message. "Should he find us, Loki will do us no harm."

Thor sighed, before nodding stiffly and walking away. Odin glanced to his wife, having since picked up that there was something unspoken between them which he had not been clued into, but followed his son out of the door, trusting that Frigga knew what she was doing. In the meantime, he had a kingdom to wrestle back into control.

The door thudded closed behind the trope, leaving only the beautiful Frigga with her little smile and glittering gown alongside Jack in his tatty hoodie and shoe-less feet. He felt strange, knowing his was his grandmother and aware she was clued into exactly who he was as well. He also felt slightly awkward, because this wasn't how he imagined meeting her. Not that he was really expecting a happy, tearful family reunion, but the whole fiasco with his father and the snow meant that this wasn't the best first impression.

"Why didn't you tell Odin?" He asked, because it seemed like the most prudent question. Better than playing at ignorance and dancing around the fact she knew he was Loki's son.

"Your father asked me not to."

Jack snorted, because it seemed only like yesterday that Loki had threatened Thor with more than just bodily harm to keep him from breathing a word. "And you agreed?"

"I love my son," she nodded. "It was the least I could do to make up for the horrors dealt to him in the past."

"What do you mean?"

Frigga faltered, looking up at him properly for the first time. He allowed her scrutiny of his character, and felt self-conscious by how she glanced upon his ghostly pale, white-haired form.

"You _are_ young, aren't you?"

"Three-hundred," he defended. "And in human terms that's actually pretty good."

"You died, Jack. I remember."

"So do I."

She put her hand on his shoulder then, seemingly undeterred by his alarming temperature, before bringing her other hand up to cradle his cheek. It was a familiar gesture to Jack; one Loki used to show affection on the rare occasion words failed him.

"You are a marvel, child. I know what you did for your sister. Your father does, too. You came here to save him, didn't you?"

Jack could only nod, sadly sending a gust of icy wind down her arm as he sighed. "You locked him up for a reason, right? He's better behind bars?"

"Yes, but maybe he has broken out for another. Perhaps this was how it was meant to be."

She stroked his face with a thumb, smiling as the boy basked in the fondness given out so freely.

"I'm so glad I could finally meet you," she breathed, and he returned it, feeling the truth of it with all his heart. With it, however, his stomach curled sickly with the thought of Loki, alone and angry, having to fight his way past his own mother to be free.

"I have to find him, but I don't know where he is or where he's likely to go-"

"You'll figure it out." she assured him, sadly wrapping an arm around his neck and drawing him close to her. "You will always find one another."

And Jack hugged her back, clinging to her desperately. Because here was his family, and with her came hope. Hope had been to and fro as of late, sometimes overwhelming him, and sometimes impossible to grasp. All Jack wanted was to see Loki again, just once, even to make sure he was alright.

What he didn't know was that, at the very edge of the world, his father was risking his life to ensure the same of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have trouble with Jack scenes, I think. I don't really know him as well as I'd like. On the other hand, Loki-Frigga scenes are my favourite things of all time to write. Any excuse to write mummy feels.  
> Thank you for reading!


	6. Names Get Carved in the Red Oak Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm surprised at my own ability to update, I really am. Usually I'm sucky at all of this. I think it's the fact you guys keep on commenting and you're all perfect, so thank you so much for that.

Below him the seas of Asgard dropped off an endless waterfall into the depth of space, whilst behind him the city stood still and silent, with everyone converged in one place to discuss the strange weather patterns.

In front of him Heimdall stood, and if this little divergence to see the god of light wasn't going to get him killed then Loki would come to believe himself invincible.

They were at the end of the rainbow bridge, which was still shattered and dull from where Thor had smashed his hammer down upon it. Heimdall had been staring into the gaping void of the universe as he always did; simply standing, keeping watching, quiet and knowing.

Loki knew that he was right in being scared of the all-seer, at least a little bit. Heimdall's sword was nothing to scoff at, either.

Loki, however, wasn't being wary when he approached the guard of the Realm Eternal, as there were several more important matters at hand. Number one was priority, if only to set his mind at rest.

"Where is he?" He spat, approaching Heimdall at speed as the god tried to round on him equally as fast. The larger man lost this game, however, as Loki was smaller, faster, evasive. He dodged the swing of Heimdall's weapon and barrelled into him, setting the man back a few steps. Then he shifted out of the range of his swing, posture defensive as they stared each other down.

"Where _is_ he?" He spat again, growling out each word as if they were his last. For all he knew, they might well be.

"Your son?" The god opposite him questioned, as if he were unaware. Loki snarled out in affirmation, impatient with this game and wishing it to be over. Here was too exposed, too open, too dangerous. Here could be where he made his last stand. Again.

"Your son is in the presence of Odin All-Father," Heimdall announced, and whatever was left of Loki's composure, built up again when he had found himself with his mother's head clenched tightly between his hands, fell away to reveal that same tortured, furious man who had returned home with no intention of making peace.

"What is he doing?" He screamed, clutching his own sceptre magically summoned from the vaults in front of him as if a shield, clinging to it as he desperately wished to attack. The fear that swam within him consumed his entire being as every instance he had spent the last three hundred years trying frantically to avoid became reality. "What is he doing to my son?"

"He has put him before Asgard." Heimdall had taken another step back when he saw Loki crumble, when he perceived the viciousness of his opponent and likened it to that of a cornered animal; one who would lash out regardless of friend or foe if they were to step too close. Loki, he saw, was terrified.

"Why?" The god of mischief spat, disgusted and outraged at the very notion. "What has he possibly done wrong?"

Heimdall glanced up to the sky and Loki's gaze followed it. Upon them the snow fell, setting on their shoulders and in their hair and over their weapons of choice, and Loki took a long moment to simply stare, his tense muscles not loosening for an instant, but his eyes widening and his snarling mouth going slack.

"It's only _snow_." He snapped, rounding back on the son of nine mothers, who raised his hands to the frost raining down over Asgard.

"He caused a panic that would have made you proud, trickster." Heimdall said, and Loki didn't bother to deny it. He'd not been there to see it, but he had been since assured it had been nothing short of a spectacle. Loki didn't doubt that for a second. Even when he was a child, Jack could create chaos from even the smallest of pranks.

"They're blaming him for their own idiocy?" He derived from Heimdall's words, remembering how flustered and confused Thor seemed, then applying the same panic and more to those who had only ever associated such biting cold with Frost Giants.

"As unexpected and unusual as it was, perhaps they cannot be blamed."

"So they drag him to court like a common criminal?"

"Or like you? Taken before Asgard when a trick goes awry? Children do take after their parents, after all."

This was a step too far, Heimdall realised, when Loki lashed out with his spear. It was only due to his own warrior's reflects that brought his own sword up in time to block the attack. Over where the weapons strained against each other, Loki's face was close to the other god's, eyes burning and lips twisted with rage as he fought against Heimdall's assumption.

"My children are _nothing_ like me." He whispered, and perhaps in another context the volume would have been mistaken for soft. " _None_ of them. Now, what is happening to my son?"

And Heimdall looked, not because Loki asked him to, or even because he cared, but because here was a side of Loki no one had seen for the last thousand years or so, before Angrboða died. A side no one thought him capable of since.

When he glanced out into the unknown, he saw Jack Frost, or Jackson Lokison, had been relocated and was now confronting the All-Father in one of the smaller hall of Asgard. There  he was being grilled by his suspicious grandfather, whilst his ever-vigilant uncle overlooked protectively. That should have been Loki's job as a parent, but Heimdall could feel the weight of Loki's strength pressed against him and knew that one more blunder may yet prove to be the death of him. Loki only appeared weak; only against those who wore their strength in more obvious ways.

"Your mother has met him." Heimdall replied dutifully, and Loki nodded sharply, the harshness of his eyes easing slightly, but his thin lips becoming no whiter from how tightly he was pressing them together.

"Does Odin know?" He asked, and Heimdall shook his head.

"You have done well in protecting this one. Even I knew nothing of him until he came to this land."

"He's a foolish child for it." Loki agreed, before rounding on Heimdall himself. "And you? What reason do you have for maintaining this cover? Shouldn't you have gone running for the king?"

"There has been no reason to. Jack Frost has committed no crime."

"He is a Lokison. Is that not crime enough?" Loki snarled, pushing himself away again and glowering upon the gatekeeper, who stared at him with his golden eyes. "I do not know what game you are playing, gatekeeper, but if harm should come to him upon your watch, so help me I will follow every single word of the prophecies, every last detail , to ensure that I have your skin as payment."

Heimdall did not doubt him for a second, but nor did he cave to the threat. Loki could scream profanities and shout and cause a ruckus, but it was clear he'd sooner leave his son another guardian to the ever-growing pile than resort to murder when he was already leaving behind too large a mess to atone for.

"I can promise you nothing, princeling." He said, much to Loki's distaste. He overran whatever vitriolic comeback may have been to continue on: "Though I do believe that soon it will be of no matter."

Loki, he knew, never hated him more than in that moment. It was easy to tell from the loathing layered into every movement, every glance, every twitch of his lips. With every word he bit back from his tongue, Loki was revealing more of the truth of himself to the gatekeeper than he had ever done in his life. And yet, he did not act upon this hate, nor did he even attempt to mask it. Immediately, Heimdall sensed something amiss.  

"One thing intrigues me, Loki," he spoke in his usual deep monotone. Loki inclined his head shortly to acknowledge his words. "How do you plan to leave?"

Loki looked at him seriously, green to hawkish gold as the seconds ticked by, not answering with time enough for the god of light to not truly appreciate the hollowness of his eyes, or how dull they were even in the light of the Bifrost and the shadow of the golden city.

"Like this." He said, before disappearing in a swirl of black.

Heimdall leapt forward, hands reaching out to grasp him, but he was met only with air and shadow as he swiped at the space Loki had stood seconds before. Heimdall hissed under his breath, wondering _how_. Loki had been restricted from his magic since he returned to Asgard, so had no feasible way of leaving through his usual routes. The only other method, now the Bifrost was destroyed, was through the aid of dark magic granted by the All-Father. Along with, he supposed, the method of _snow-globes_ which Jack Frost came to these lands upon. Otherwise, there was nothing.

Therefore, since the situation most certainly called for it, Heimdall swore into the empty atmosphere.

\--

Frigga had taken Jack firmly by the arm and led him deeper into the palace, oblivious to any difference in temperature between them despite the fact she must have been as aware of Jack's cold as he was of her warmth. Seriously, living people were far, far too hot.

"Are you not getting frostbite from this?" He asked her as she led him down halls, but she shook her head.

"I'm a god, Jack." She reminded him softly, as if he could have forgotten, whilst they turned a sharp corner. "Your father was always cold."

"Really?" Jack said, before he himself distinctly recalled sitting down one winters evening and avidly avoiding Loki's touch. It was not that it was abhorrent and most certainly not unwanted, but rather Loki always felt like the bite of snow was only hours away from taking his fingers off. How Abigail learnt to live with such freeze beside at night was a mystery to Jack, though he'd rather not think of his parents in bed.

"Here," she said, opening a large door made of dark wood, which was marked with various, intricate carvings. He spared a moment to stare, seeing some more of a similar sort on the inside, falling behind Frigga as he did so. He touched his fingers to it only briefly, before jerking away when ice shot up it, surrounding and outlining each beautiful image.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologised, but she did not scold him for it. She joined his side again, and looked upon the door as if she had never seen it before.

"He was always adding to this," she said, looking across what seemed to be a giant tree with various runes and landscapes on each branch. It made no sense to Jack, but she seemed to follow whatever narrative, if there was any, that was splayed across the heavy wood. "Constantly changing it, editing it. He was never happy."

"What even is it?"

"It is a map, Jack." Frigga explained, pointing to one of the highest most points of the tree. "There is where Asgard stands, nearest the sun and the moon at the top."

"Is Earth on here?"

"Certainly," Frigga said, drawing down her finger to the centre of the door and touching a small cluster of runes. "It says simply 'Midgard'," she translated, and he looked over the carvings. Here seemed to be a large cluster of different people of different ages, shapes and sizes, some younger and some terribly old. The youngest of which seemed to be-

"Is that... me?" He breathed, not hesitating this time to touch and spread ice over this small section of the door, staring at this wooden caricature. Frigga nodded, seemingly only to realise this now.

"You were always in his heart." She informed him, and Jack nodded.

"I know." The sprite had met his father enough times over the years to come to understand the depth of mourning he was ever reeling in. Even when he had met Loki recently in New York, when they had met each other properly for the first time in three-hundred years, there still an ubiquitous sense of loss which hung heavily over him.

He touched upon another figure, elderly and smiling, and realised this must have been Emma at the end of her life. "He saw her die?"  

"He felt it better than to drag her through eternity with him. Humans are not made for such a burden, and a child does not need their father forever."

Jack frowned, looking at his own pale hands in contemplation, before glancing to his grandmother. She bit her lip and wrapped her fingers around his shoulder.

"Jack," she cooed, softly and comfortingly and just the right amount of calm. "I do not understand how you still go on, and perhaps one day you shall explain it to us all, but today I shall not pry and you need not speak. Nevertheless, you cannot deny that you are different than when you were alive."

He was. Perhaps not in personality or in maturity or mischief, but certainly in responsibility, in power and in thought process. He looked back to the past and recalled himself as terribly naïve; a small being trapped in a small body in a small universe, with no immediate plans outside of _get through this winter_. His priorities had been small, his dreams even more so, with hope for a nice life for his family and to make his parents proud.

Now, however, he was a guardian: protecting the world from evil, making sure all the children were safe and happy, with friends and ideals that reached up to the stars, and powers that stretched to the moon and back - quite literally - and he felt free in the knowledge that before him stood forever, just waiting to be explored, and he was not just Jack, but also the snow, the ice, the hoarfrost and the winter. He was so large, so wonderfully everywhere, so delightfully present across the world. Here in Asgard, he almost felt suffocated by the loss of such a feeling.

He was certainly altered from before; adapted to face the universe that was ever before him as best as he was able. And Jack Frost was _very_ able.

He could, therefore, understand why Loki thought it better to allow Emma her normal life, when Emma had been born and raised in a certain time period, with certain expectations and certain ideals. She had exceeded all of these, thanks to her blood, and happily lived a longer life than any of her surrounding fellows. She aged enough to see her family grow and multiply and grow and multiply some more, and afterwards she had at peace. Loki had ensured that.

However, that didn't mean he wouldn't have been saddened by it, and Jack wasn't particularly comforted. Emma, in all his memories, was young and bouncy and, at times, wary of Jack's ideas of 'fun'. Jack had never gotten to see her old and crooked and perfectly ready to say goodbye. He knew it would have killed him. He was sure it had killed his father as well. Then Jack thought of Thor's words, that he had other siblings, and started to question whether Loki had been through this before.

He glanced upon the other people on the Earth section of the door, wondering how many of them were his siblings. Giving in to the powerful curiosity, he couldn't help but ask his grandmother.

"Thor said I had brothers and sisters, other than Emma." He glanced at the men and women carved into the door pointedly, but Frigga only smiled.

"Of what I know of these people, only you and your sister were his offspring. The others," she said, tracing the outline of multiple heads. "Were people your father cared about a great deal. No doubt some of these were his lovers. Your mother will be on here, also."

Jack found her easily enough. Abigail had a distinct hairstyle which Loki braided it into on special occasions. She once told Jack and Emma Loki had stolen into her house on the morning of their wedding without her parents knowing, just so he could wrap her hair and braid into it several beautiful hand-crafted beads glittering with jewels beyond any wealth she had before seen. She kept those beads her entire life, and intended to pass them down to Emma. Jack wondered whether they were still in whatever family was left behind.

"What are we all doing on here?" He said, glancing back up to Asgard and expecting to see Frigga, Thor and Odin gouged into the wood, but there was nothing. Only a beautiful landscape of the city which seemed to shine out even against the darkened colour of the door.

"I believe," Frigga replied carefully, glancing her eyes over the other areas, a few of which had carvings of individuals, but none of which held as many as Earth did. "That these are the people Loki has buried."

Jack snatched his hand away as if burnt, stepping back to view the door as a whole. He gazed upon the image in this new light, staring and feeling his heart break as he absently counted the amount of figures he could see. As a person who had never truly dealt with the loss of a loved one, not _really_ , Jack could not comprehend the weight this door now held.

"So, is this his place, then?" He said abruptly, gesturing into the huge room and distracting himself from his empathetic misery. He observed every detail of his father's private quarters instead of niggle over the guilt of being on that door at all. He'd rather forget it ever existed than deal with the fact his father, his mother and his sister had been forced to put him to rest.

"This is Loki's room." Frigga nodded, closing the door behind them as Jack explored. It was a green and gold decor, of course, though Jack hardly expected any different.

He noticed that the bookshelves were all empty, something that seemed glaringly odd in the otherwise perfectly kept living space. Another thing strange was how thin the dust was upon those shelves. The books that were kept on it had been recently moved away by the looks of it.

"We locked him up, but we allowed him his books. Loki would have demanded them before long regardless. He always got too bored too quickly."

"Me too." Jack agreed, absently picking up a string of glittering silver and bronze beads that were kept on the surface of a tabletop, before quickly putting it back down again when the string almost crumbled under the touch. Looking at it again, Jack could see just how old it was. He let it be, with an apologetic glance to Frigga, and then he turned to take in each aspect of the ridiculously sized room, from the high-arched ceilings to the thinly blanketed bed, then to the balcony which stood with the dark draperies open but the doors firmly shut. Outside, Asgard stretched. From there, you could see the Bifrost in the distance, and if Jack squinted he could just about make out a gathering at the end of the shattered bridge.

"That looks like Thor," he said, and Frigga peeked over his shoulder before agreeing.

"It is. My son has gone to talk to Heimdall, the gatekeeper, to see if he knows your father's whereabouts."

"Why would he know from all the way over there?"

"Heimdall is one of the most powerful of us all." She said. "He has the power of the All-Sight. Much like Odin and I, except we must be upon the throne to utilise it. He may see everything whenever he wishes."

"So he can definitely tell us where my father is?" Jack inferred excitedly, jumping back towards the doors to run straight to this gatekeeper, only to be stopped by a hand clamping firmly about his wrist and stopping him short. "We can find him!" Jack demanded of her, trying to make her see the urgency of the situation as he shook his arm to knock her hand from him. It made no difference, since Frigga was obviously determined not to budge on her own accord until Jack stood down.

"Your father is a skilled magician, and a highly intelligent man. He is one of few, and potentially the only one in the universe, who has found a way of shielding himself from Heimdall's gaze. Do you understand Jack? Your father will not be found if he should not wish it."

"He has no magic." Jack countered determinedly. "There is no way he can pull his usual tricks without getting caught out once."

"All-Sight does not work in such a convenient way, Jack, as any gift does not. Being blessed with the All-Sight does not necessitate you see everything; only the potential. Much like a seer may not completely be sure on the future, only a _likely_ one."

"Prophecies." Jack said, recalling all the warnings he'd received regarding them. "Father hated them."

"He still does." Frigga agreed.

"Why?"

She looked suddenly wretched, as if she had been part of an erroneous happening, been at fault for something she couldn't hope to right. Jack knew that look. He'd seen it too recently on someone else's face - someone who shared those same green eyes. Jack wanted nothing more than to wipe that look from her face, so distracted her once again with something he'd already been curious enough about to mention.

"I _do_ have siblings, though? Even though they're not on the door."

"None of them are of a human as you and Emma were," Frigga agreed, slowly coming back from whatever haunted place in her mind she had found and despondently started to wallow in. "They are not dead."

"How come I've never heard of them?"

"Your father is an incredibly private person, especially regarding those he loves." She explained sadly. "Even _to_ those he loves. It took him years to tell me about you and your sister, so I am not surprised he never got around to explaining his other children to you. I imagine your mother would not have taken such news in the best of lights."

Jack snorted, because there was an understatement if he'd ever heard one. Saying Abigail would have freaked out if he'd learnt Loki had already been married with kids would have been like saying she wouldn't have flipped if Loki didn't turn up for Sunday mass. Which he often didn't. It was the main reasons they argued, actually. Apparently, 'I forgot' wasn't an excuse.

"Well, who are they?"

"I'm unsure if you will ever meet them. They are isolated souls. Very much like your father."

Jack didn't understand as she looped her arm around his again and steered him purposely out of the room. "Can't I see them?"

"No." Frigga stopped and looked at him deeply, eyes grazing over his face and taking in every minute feature, from his white hair to his pale skin to his shining blue eyes. He knew he looked suitably ethereal, and wondered how easily they'd have believed him to be the son of Loki had he still appeared in his darker, more human form.

"Jack," she spoke softly, leaning in for him to hear her. "These are delicate matters which you must not meddle with. Perhaps one day you will come across them, but you must _not_ go looking. This is out of all our controls, and I beg of you to refrain. I know you care, Jack, and so do I. I wish more than anything to see my grandchildren again, except perhaps to ensure my child and his children are reunited. Look for _him_ Jack,  your father, and not for them. He will do that part for you."

Well, that all sounded incredibly... ominous. And Jack heard her, he really did. He registered the words, and even though he didn't fully understand _why_ , he realised that she was being deadly serious. But it was of no use. Telling Jack Frost not to do something was like actively giving him permission to do it. If instructing him _no_ was all that stopped him, he wouldn't have even made it to Asgard in the first place.

"Where are we going?" He asked her instead of prying, aware that she wouldn't answer him and not wanting to let her on to his sudden bout of defiance. To his question she turned to him with a broad grin, looking out of place on such a dignified woman.

"Have you met Sleipnir?" She asked, and tentatively Jack shook his head, feeling as if this was a trap.

"Who's Sleipnir?"

\--

Sleipnir, as it turned out, was a horse. But not just any horse. He was _the_ horse. The creepy spider horse he'd seen with Odin leading Asgard to the palace doors.

The horse who, up close, if you ignored the distracting surplus of legs, was actually magnificent. Golden and shining, like the rest of its surroundings, Jack thought he had seen a horse of such colouring perhaps once before in all his three-hundred years, and even then it had been nothing compared to the glorious creature before him. Again, ignoring the legs, it was a sight and a half.

It even had a few pretty beads in its hair, hidden away securely under the mane, and Jack stared at them for a long time, wondering what the significance of the hand-made decorations were in this culture. Frigga, however, didn't seem to notice his confusion, as she offered no answers.

Instead, she was standing back, watching on gently as Jack stared. When he looked back to her she waved a hand, encouraging him to touch Sleipnir's nose.

"He is a perfect horse," she said. "Odin's own steed. The pride of Asgard. He will not hurt you."

Jack didn't have a good track record with horses. When he was alive Loki had tried to teach him to ride, but he had been too young and was terrified by the giant animals. When he got older and his leg became steadily worse over the course of the years and he tried it again for practicality's sake, but instead of making his life easier the creature threw him. Jack's fear came crashing back as soon as he realised he'd almost died from it.

Loki had been a little disappointed, because he had always had an affection for horses, but he understood. He told Jack the night after he'd been thrown that there was no reason to be ashamed of his fear.

"We are all scared of something." He'd said pointedly. "Such as Emma and spiders, or your mother and her demons."

"But horses are stupid to be scared of," Jack had returned petulantly. "They're the one thing no one is scared of because they're nice. Even Emma likes them."

"You don't have to like what Emma does. Further, neither of you have never seen the damage a horse can do to a person. You were almost killed today Jack, and all it did was knock you off its back. Imagine what would have happened if it trampled over you, or kicked you, or bit you?"

Jack thought to those teeth, large and gnashing in its huge jaw, or the weight of the horse with its metal shoes crashing down upon him, and winced.

"Precisely." Loki nodded, before running a hand through Jack's hair. "There was a time I was scared of horses too, Jack. I was absolutely terrified. I had never been so scared, actually."

"But you like horses. You're always looking for an excuse to ride."

"I had to get over my fear, Jack. I would have rather died than not try my hardest to recover. You, however, do not share the same burden as I. If you are scared of them, then be scared. Fear is a natural and logical thing. It keeps us alive."

"I'm not going to die by horse." He said, before realising how close he _had_ been today. If he had landed in even the slightest way different it would have certainly been _bye bye life_. Jack didn't want to think about it, and clearly neither did Loki. However, Jack had been right. _Horse_ had not been his method of death, which was something he was rather glad of.

Not that Jack's horse troubles stopped as soon as he became a ghost/spirit/sprite. Whilst he was no longer scared of the animals due to his lack of memories and alterations in instinct, that didn't mean he had a good relation with them all at once. Rather, he was the one doing the terrorising and the horses were the ones sensibly running in the opposite direction.

He was too cold for horses. And that applied to all horses, it seemed, except for this one in Asgard.

Sleipnir did not attack nor run nor even startle as Jack drew nearer. The cold seemed not to bother the horse despite the fact Jack was more than aware that all inhabitants of this land were more used to warmer climates. Maybe they all really were just made of sturdier stuff than Earthlings.

Sleipnir only reared back initially, and that was only so he could smell Jack's palm and gaze at him critically. That a horse gave Jack that particular _look_ was not lost on him, and the sprite wondered that perhaps this creature could sense he was dead.

Whether he could or not, the great beast did nothing adverse, nor did he seem to care. Rather, he allowed Jack to touch him, stroke his mane, and truly appreciate the marvel this strange being was.

"Why does he have eight legs?" Jack eventually gathered up the courage to ask, directing the question at Frigga though he continued to stare at the uninterested horse who continued on his own agenda, chewing his food without regards to Jack's antics. Jack supposed that made sense. If he had four hind legs to kick people with as soon as they did something he didn't like, he wouldn't worry too much about strangers either.

"Complications with his heritage and birth." The queen answered vaguely. "His mother was of magic and ill-prepared for the child. We think the magic in her body must have reacted to protect her, warping the foal's development." He could hear the shifting of her dress across her shoulders as she shrugged. "However, that is only a theory. No one truly knows."

"Does it hurt him?"

"No. He is the greatest of all horses. We are extremely proud."

"So it doesn't slow him down or anything?"

"Perhaps it did initially. Otherwise, no. Since then he has become the swiftest of all creatures." Frigga was gazing upon Sleipnir lovingly, coming next to Jack to pat him on the neck and smile. "He is everything to our family."

Jack stared a little more at the horse, realising that there was something old about it; old and knowledgeable. Older than him, anyway. The door to the stables was wide open and it was not kept here, but yet it remained. It watched the snow with some amount of interest, but largely continued on, keeping calmer than most of the inhabitants of the Asgard. That may be simply due to the fact it was an animal, but others may say it was because it had seen worlds others hadn't. As the steed of Odin, Jack wasn't likely to doubt it.

\--

Thor found them eventually, peeking in interestedly before grinning broadly and coming over to touch Sleipnir, to join them. The horse did not seem bothered by the attention, though reacted more to Thor than it had to Frigga or Jack.

"Hello there, child." Thor greeted warmly, and for a moment Jack thought he was talking to him. "I see you have met Jack. Another Lokison!"

"Thor," Frigga interrupted, asking him what had happened on the Bifrost. "Any word of Loki?"

"Nothing," Thor deflated, running his hand down Sleipnir's mane and correcting some of the beads plaited in, slipping them back up to their appropriate sittings from where the horse's movements had shaken them loose. "Heimdall met with Loki briefly, but not for long. Apparently my brother _disappeared_."

"Like, literally?" Jack guessed from Thor's tone.

Thor nodded. "There was definitely magic involved. Of that Heimdall has no doubt."

"How?" Frigga questioned. "I bound him myself."

Thor replied, uncertainly. "Apparently it did not keep. Is that even possible?"

"No. It is magic maintained by my own power. Only if my magic is taken from me, along with all feelings I harbour for my son, can the spells be broken without my consent."

Thor looked nervous, and suggested tentatively, "Loki is a master of sorcery. A mage of no equal. It could be possible-"

"Perhaps. But unlikely."

Sleipnir had grown restless under Thor's hand, and they all became aware of it at once. The horse moved away from them, backing back into a place filled with hay and protected from the snow. Thor followed, tentatively taking a green piece of embroidery, thick and warm and beautiful, and threw it over the horse's back.

"I apologise." He said to the horse lowly, respectfully. Jack questioned how long this creature had been around in order to gain the rights to be treated with such care and devotion from his owners. "We shall go elsewhere."

Sleipnir did not reply.  Of course he didn't. He was a horse. He simply took a mouthful of hay and waved his tail. It was, in its own way, a dismissal, as it batted Thor firmly before Thor took the hint and backed away.

"Come," Frigga said, beckoning them both back towards the palace. "We should talk of this away from here, more privately. Further, we should tell the king."

And Jack followed dutifully, if only because here lay the only path to finding his father. However, as they walked he took a moment to glance at this small selection of his family and smiling at the gentle looks which were returned.

They were both so different from Loki, blond and gentle and strong, but in those quiet moments, in those kind, loving looks, they were his spitting image. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be longer than I intended. Not because of anything sensible like plot, but because things like the whole door-map thing accidentally slipped in and I wasted a few thousand words on it and forgot I have plot to progress in the meantime. So there's two sections which should have been in this chapter that will be in the next one, and likely that'll be a habit I keep up.  
> Also, thank you again all of you! You have no idea how happy it makes me to see that you all approve of my silly little story.


	7. Writing on the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a little bit of difficulty with this one. Mostly because I'm ill and in no mood to type. Nevertheless, I miss having attention from you guys and the faster I update the faster I can get to the actual plot. So. Enjoy!

Odin reached out and his fingers found the pale scratches made on the inside of the prison door. They were not marks made out of anger, nor out of pain. Rather, they were the product of patience, absent-mindedness and boredom. A whittle at wood to pass the time by. And he had been in here for many weeks - his masterpiece on the door may only be in its infancy, may be nothing like the creation cut deep into the thick oak of the entrance to his quarters, but it was nevertheless beautiful.

Loki's tool had been a knife - blunted for eating and squirreled away by a masterful slip of the hand. It had not been enough to hurt, and he had not even bothered to utilise it in his escape, but it was enough to chip at the wood splinter by splinter until a picture became apparent. He had left both art and utensil behind him without a second glance.

There must have been a reason, Odin considered. Loki, even between the option of mutilating a door and mind-numbing boredom, would never simply scratch upon the wood merely _anything_. Loki's habit took time; was not really a habit at all, but rather a memorial. It was something sacred to him, which would not be repeated for a meaningless drawing. So Odin studied it critically, and tried to guess what his lost son was trying to tell him.

The carving was clearly crude, not even partially done, and something Loki no doubt focused on only when he had finally closed his books, repetitively read to the point of tedium, and looked around for something else to put his mind to. However, that did not make it less important. Nothing Loki did was without a point. He was very careful about that, as Odin had taught him.

Upon the wood, etched deep enough for Loki to later round the outlines off and shape them into careful details, were people. Small people. Odin would have simply assumed it was the appropriate perspective had there not been larger others lingering at the edges of the door. Children, the All-Father then revised. And the adults around them were weeping.

Odin's finger ran down the profile of a particularly distraught woman, reaching out to the young creatures in the centre. They, in turn, paid no heed to the distress surrounding them. They stared upon Odin as the king of Asgard narrowed his gaze in consideration. He did not fully understand, but he had an idea. A suspicion. One he had hoped he'd never have to face.

His tore his hand away from the door, closing it sharply and glaring upon the opposite side where the wood was pristine and featureless. He clenched his fists, itching to shout and rave and pierce the door with his spear to banish the damned thing from existence; send it to Hel where the child could herself cast eye upon the forecast of the future. Loki had always known the prophecies, and this seemed like a direct mockery.

Upon the doors in his chambers Loki had etched into the wood people whom he had lost. They were men and women he would never have back. Family from Midgard who lived too short lives, lovers and friends from across the realms who had died in his name, in a battle by his side, or due to freak accidents Loki would never speak of after. He gouged their faces into wood to ensure he would never forget them; would always recall those who had been taken from him.

This new carving, however, appeared to Odin to present the precise opposite. They were people who were going to be taken by Loki's hand. The children, blank-eyed and emotionless, seemed only a fitting revenge for the pain he himself had endured.

Loki had never believed Odin's good intentions, after all.

 _You were blinded by the warnings of the mad old crones!_ The young prince had screeched and screamed at the king, days after the tragedy when he could finally stomach the sight of his father. _Why would you listen to them and not me? I am your son!_

He had been Odin's son. Now he was looking more and more like the monster the tales had warned them all of. The creature Odin had been trying so hard to keep his child from becoming.

 _I'm doing this to protect you. They would have brought about the end to everything._ Odin had tried to explain, he truly had, but Loki was blinkered himself by his own delusions, his need for a normal life.

 _They're_ children _!_

_They're monsters!_

Odin regretted it, what he had said that day. Loki was too distracted by his own pain, by his staggering losses which would have brought lesser men to their knees. In only a few short days Loki had lost his wife and children, and Odin knew he should have been more sensitive to the fact when he had tried to defend himself.

Truly, he shouldn't have attempted to justify his actions in the first place. Loki would have hated him, but he had done that anyway.

And now, it seemed, judging by the engraving in the door, the youngest prince of Asgard was planning something monstrous. Something suiting the father of monsters; a nickname Loki had picked up and never bothered to shake off.

 _I'd much rather be the father of monsters than the son of Odin_ , Loki had informed him. He'd later, much later, apologise for his conduct, and following had been mutual forgiveness. Odin had hoped there would be the end of it, until Loki had fallen into the void. Until the void had stolen Loki's mind.

Left behind was little more than a shell of a man with a thin veneer of rationality masking its face. A son of Odin's he would always be, but he was not the boy which Odin knew. He now knew only pain and revenge and anger - he had almost killed his own mother in cold blood. He would never be that child again. Not that, if Loki had his way, it would matter in the long run. Judging by his inadvertent threat to Odin gouged into this door, for he knew the king would come and inspect his cell once he had vacated it, the long run was not going to be as lengthy as Odin would have liked. In fact, it was drawing ever nearer with every passing second.

Odin All-Father did not have much time. However, he could spare himself this moment, just to think on the past, reconsider every moment he had spent with his son and regret all the wrongs he had done him. If he could take them all back, he would. Even the children. Especially the children.

The clip of heels on the marble floor echoed despite the distance between Odin and the newcomer. It took little to know who it would be; only his wife would dare disturb the god of gods when he had dismissed all others around him.

As the queen of Asgard approached, Odin moved to straighten his back, turn away from the closed door and stand regally, not brokenly. However this made no difference to Frigga, who saw through his piteous attempt at majesty as soon as she rounded the corner. To her, he was nothing more than a miserable old man, slump and alone, pining after a long-lost could-have-been.

She touched his hand carefully, her blond hair glittering in the dull sun which was starting to finally overpower the darken clouds with their heavy, snowy loads. He stared at her, seeing his sons in her beautiful face. Both of them. Where there was Thor's smile, there was also Loki's bright twinkle of understanding. Now, though, the latter was something unique to Frigga only.  

There were bruises forming on her face from the powerful fingers of their dark haired boy. It had not been her who had deserved them, yet she still bore some of what should have been Odin's punishment. It was only further proof that Loki would not stand for anyone crossing his path should they try and stop his plans from progressing.

"There is no news." She said softly, as if it would come as a relief. It did not. It burned through the All-Father, knowing that out there, somewhere in this vast universe, Loki was setting his plans and baiting his traps. Odin had some clue where he would start and was eager to avoid setting the cycle into motion.

"Come." He instructed, taking her by the arm and guiding them both away. "You saw the carving?"

Frigga shook her head, confused. "I assume you do not mean the tree inside his dorms."

"Nay. I refer to the hideous etching of his prison cell."

"What does it portray?"

He told her, and she seemed saddened.

"Perhaps it is not what you think?"                                                

"Then what would you believe it to be, woman? You did not see it. You did not see the threat of it."

She looked as if she wished to say more but was restricted by her station. It was something rare to observe, and an incident Odin was uncomfortable with. His wife should never be nervous about speaking her mind, especially since her mind was what had kept him afloat all these long, difficult years. She was there to keep him safe, sane and loved, and he tried with every waking breath to somehow return that favour.

"What keeps you silent, lady?"

She took his hands again, leaning in close and pressing her forehead against his in a loving, broken-hearted gesture. "Perhaps it is not what you think." She insisted.

"You believe it has something to do with the boy? His son?"

She startled, leaning back to catch his eyes with hers, and he smiled down upon her carefully, wishing once more he could have been more tactful.

"The sprite is Loki's child, is he not?"

Speechless, ashamed, Frigga nodded.

"I could tell." He explained slowly. "It is not simply the magic of Luna which writhes under his skin. Loki's magic lives within him, as it does in his other offspring."

"You knew immediately?"

"Upon our first meeting." Odin confirmed, and Frigga's eyebrows tilted tragically. He squeeze the hands that still clung on to his, forgiveness in his touch.

"You need not be shamed, my love. You gave your word to Loki." He knew this without his wife needing to inform him. Her children were the only beings in this world she would betray her loyalty to her husband and her king for. He could never wrong her for it. He should never have wronged any parent for it. Simply another thing he was guilty of.

They were headed to the grand hall where Odin had, a few long hours previously, attempted to reign some order back into his lands. The weather had not ceased to be cold and alarming, he gained no reprieve to ease the people's broken nerves, and nor had they truly believed Jack Frost was no more a Frost Giant than he was innocent in regards to Loki's recent escape. Odin had told the truth about the second, but lied about the first. Jack Frost, the winter spirit and guardian of the children of Midgard, _was_ half Frost Giant, but the population of Asgard had no privilege to this information, especially since the child himself likely did not know.

Odin had managed to create the calm through force and general reassurance. "He is not from Jötunheim, but Midgard! Should he raise an army, though I believe him to be no threat, we can defeat him as we once did the Frost Giants."

It had worked in its own way. The people, at least, had started to recall their own might and strength and with their confidence, wits also returned. When they asked after Loki, Odin said he'd personally deal with the matter. This was the promise which had led him down to the cell they'd kept his son in. It was also an oath he had no intention to break.

The king and queen were met in the hall by Thor, who had  been waiting. In that moment he was standing broad and strong and stern - the heir of Asgard, the first son, and the mightiest of all Æsir. He, too, had no news for the king on the lost prince.

"Heimdall cannot track him," he sighed, already weary of the game his tarnished brother was drawing him into. He, like Odin and Frigga, wanted to find Loki as quickly as possible. Whilst the son and the mother wished it for Loki's own good, Odin was burdened with a bigger, wider universe to be concerned about. There was more than just Loki's life on the line here, and every second which passed was another instant Loki had to lay down his plots.

"He has no magic. How can he do all of this?"

"He must have aid." Thor said, and his parents understood.

"Pitch Black." Odin answered into the quiet atmosphere, remembering the warning Jack Frost had given them honestly. It was this thought of the boy that had his thoughts truly reeling for the first time; mind stuck on the fact this had been a _child_ of _Loki's_. Before his wife's confirmation  Odin had known the fact, but only in an abstract manner. Like seeing a bilgesnipe or Jötun for the first time in the flesh: they were recognisable, but it still required some outside verification. Before that they were nothing more than the creatures of bedtime stories to terrify children through the night.

A Lokison was exactly the same. Much had they haunted him, as many has he had met, it was difficult for Odin to remember his son was a father. Even with Sleipnir, a strange and sad and guilt-riddled story if ever there was one, the chief of the gods allowed his mind to slip. Sleipnir was a horse, after all. It was easy to forget.

Faced with Jack Frost on the other hand, with his cheeky smile and frosty eyes and quick wit, had been nothing short of a sharp wake-up call. It had been perhaps Odin realising for the first time in his life that this was his family that had spared Jack the wrath of Odin panicking, as he had with all other of Loki's offspring.

Lokisons were blasphemous whispers behind cupped hands amongst the land, and whilst the king would have done anything to spare his own child the fate he was given, there was a larger picture to consider. There was always something more to think about. Odin, unfortunately, did not share the same rights as other fathers did. Loki, thanks to the damning words of the future passed down to the present, was cursed with the same.

"We will send out parties to find him." He announced, and what was left of his closest family nodded. Odin placed a hand on his son's shoulder, knowing him to be upset by the tell-tale eyes in which sorrow found a playground. He brought Frigga closer to them both with a small gesture of his hand, and they all stood huddled, grieving together, and Odin allowed them this moment before he had to recover his royal front and face the masses. They all did.

"Where is the spirit?" He wondered, knowing the two with him now had seen Jack Frost last. Thor was the one who replied.

"I saw him off back to Earth. He left through his snowglobe. It is better this way."

Frigga disagreed, sighing heavily and casting her eyes to the floor. "He will look for him." She informed them both. "He has come too far for anything else."

Odin nodded solemnly, agreeing with the tragic tone in his wife's voice - one that foretold great misfortune upon all of them. "Then let us pray that we find Loki first."

The three of them could at least hope to protect themselves from the mage gone astray. Jack Frost did not possess the same benefit.

\--

Loki entered the dark palace much the same as he always did: calmly, rudely, with no concern over the help that were pleading he cease.

Loki turned an eye to them which had them fleeing quickly enough.

Beside him, or behind him, or occasionally not in presence at all, Pitch Black flitted to and fro, keeping to the shadows and cursing Loki with every breath. Loki had a similar effect on most people.

"Why here?" Pitch was spitting, jerking into new shadows and keeping his eyes sharp. Loki knew why the alien creature was so anxious. He was in Helheim, of all places, where fear was non-existent but enemies were plentiful. Pitch was still recovering from regaining his powers so suddenly, still had the more unintelligent fearlings frothing at the mouth in an attempt to gobble him up, and had been wary of Loki's mood since Loki had found him lurking around the winding streets of Asgard.

Pitch had been soaking up the fear when the god of mischief had discovered him, feeling it hit him even when those who were scared were away from his immediate reach. Loki had not known he was there, not at first, but it soon became obvious. They knew each other too well. Here was an opportunity Pitch would never miss.

He'd snatched the Nightmare King from his darkened corner and pushed him into the light. At first Pitch had been delighted, glad to see Loki free to cause his particular brand of mayhem, but it was a feeling soon turned sour when he realised the once prince of Asgard was in no mood to play.

"You need me," The fear-monger had realised. He'd smiled, slow and malicious and dark, and if Loki had access to his magic there would have been no shortage to the agony Pitch Black would have endured. As it was, Loki was weak and shivering, not from the cold, but from his complete lack of strength. He had been safer in his cell. On the other hand, he wouldn't be able to kick-start his plans if he was securely locked away. This was the price he would have to pay, at least for now. Until he got his magic back. He had plans for that, too.

"I need to escape. I need away from this realm."

"Still playing that worn out tune, Loki?" Pitch laughed. "For all that you say you want change, you never do it for yourself."

Loki slammed Pitch against the wall, arm at his throat, cold a natural power resource utilised to _hurt_. He could do no more than sting, but it was enough to send a message. Pitch's smile turned to a snarl, and he pushed back against the prince, dusting off his clothes when Loki allowed him a slither of space.

Then Pitch looked at him properly, realised that he had perhaps misspoke.

"And where, precisely, are we going?"

"Helheim."

Pitch had been reluctant, but there was also a level of intrigue in his voice when he agreed.

Helheim was not a good place for a creature which fed off the fears of others. In a world where the only beings existing were draugr and Loki's oldest daughter, Pitch only had marginal power and influence. Worse than that, Hel also had a more personal grudge with him. As a woman attune to the more terrifying side of the supernatural - the things Pitch considered his personal play things - he often disrupted her work deliberately. Furthermore, when she had been young and living on Earth, Pitch made a habit out of dropping by to aggravate Loki by scaring his children inside their heads at night. Neither Hel nor Loki had allowed him to forget his misdeeds.

"You're up to something," he'd said when Loki had questioned his compliance. "I'd like to find out what."

Well, Pitch had always had a soft-spot for anything out of the ordinary. Loki could ensure that he would not be disappointed.

There had been a moment when Loki had first left the palace when he had been on the brink of changing his mind. About the plan, about the future, about every instant Loki had worked for. It had occurred upon first stepping out into the snow - a sudden falter where there should have been none. He had touched the miracle weather, moving his fingers in time with the dance each snowflake spun to.

He hadn't changed his mind, of course. Ultimately it had just made him more determined. He was doing this for his family after all, his little Jack included. He wished for a moment he could spend a while in his child's company but there was no practicality in the wish. He hadn't gone through with it, in the end.

He'd found Pitch instead, who was the exact opposite of Jack. Precisely what Loki needed in that moment of doubt.

As they had headed towards Heimdall - Loki was not willing to part without ensuring his son was safe in the hands of Odin, since his faux-father was not trustworthy in that respect - Pitch caught him glancing to the skies one too many times. He regaled Loki with the spectacular sight of the entirety of Asgard on the verge of falling to its knees at the hands of one smirking, bright-eyed spirit. Had Loki been capable of summoning more than fear and anxiety due to where he knew his boy to be in that moment, he might have joined Pitch in his laughter.

And then they utilised Pitch's heightened powers, enriched by the terror swallowing the Realm Eternal, and had escaped to the one place where Loki knew himself to be protected. There was a charm over Helheim which protected Hel from nosy eyes - an enchantment Loki had cast himself, and one he could retrieve upon landing.

It was not something Loki did with any amount of regret. Rather, it was a relief to have that bit of magic about himself again, able to cloak it securely around his own form and keep Heimdall's gaze from him. Some sacrifices had to be made, and it was not as if Hel was incapable of looking after herself. Loki had only ever cast the charm because, at the beginning, she had been an amateur magician and hardly able to keep wandering eyes away from her lands. Loki had never had the time nor the inclination to remove the spell since then, when she had grown older and found her own form of protection. Until now, that is.

It was this magic returned to him that stopped him from spiralling down into the dirt upon landing. Pitch Black's preferred method of travel involved a lot of movement, jostling and sudden bursts of light and dark. However, Loki was still disorientated enough to stumble; too weak and dizzy to do anything else.

Pitch simply watched him, solemn-eyed and uncomfortable in his new surroundings, glaring at Loki with great distaste.

"Perhaps would be an appropriate time to tell me what you're up to?"

Loki stared at the shadow creature with his lips tilted downwards and teeth close to grinding. It had been necessary to involve Pitch, or at least the easiest option, but, as always, Loki was sharply reminded why they hadn't ever been fast friends. Loki and Pitch were much too alike, but their few differences were jarring. Overall, they simply irritated each other when subjected to the other's extended company.

The problem one that one of them was always too extreme. For once, it wasn't Loki who was trying to reign in his companion and get him to think.

Not that Pitch was doing that now for the god, which was a blessing. Rather, he was simply demanding answers when the ex-prince had no intentions to give them away so freely.

When it became clear that Loki was not about to start talking, Pitch caught his arm and trapped him in the long, grey-fingered grip. "You are indebted to me, Asgardian."

"No, Nightmare King," Loki corrected with a sharp glance to the hand holding him hostage. "We're even."

The grip tightened towards the realm of pain, but Loki was not willing to be intimidated. Rather than wait for Pitch to demand he explain himself, the mage hissed at him to be quiet.

"Listen to me," he growled, lowly and delicately and surrounding Pitch darkly with the pitiful amount of magic he'd been able to garner from Hel's lands. "You are a being who thrives upon the terror in others. Here, now, in my daughter's realms where only the dead reside, you are only functioning upon the excess fear you gobbled up in Asgard. Without that, you would be powerless and defenceless. Your once minions would chase after you, knowing that the only fear they could taste was your own distinct flavour.

"Now," he continued when Pitch's glower did not waver. "How would you feel if all points of the universe felt like this place? Cold, empty, fearless. Awash with death and pain, but no fright to be consumed. You would be _nothing_ , Nightmare King. You would be merely a fading, _pathetic_ memory."

"You can't stop fear." Pitch returned, believing his point was valid. He was nauseatingly incorrect.

"It is not a difficult feat when no one is alive to produce it," Loki spat out, before forcing the hand from his arm and stepping back two steps. "Which makes us even."

"I'm not fond of riddles, Loki." Pitch said, coming fast after the sorcerer when he made his way towards the gates to Hel's charming, monochromatic abode. "Is this to do with the prophecies?"

Pitch had heard of them too, in great detail. There was little that got by Pitch in regard to divinations. They always caused such a delicious kerfuffle.

Loki stopped upon his words, staring to the eternally black sky of Helheim, smiling serenely, horrifically, into the darkness. " _And he shall ride on a ship upon the over-spilling seas_ ," he whispered, a very clear translation from the prediction of the end of the world. Pitch knew that one well.

And then the prince shook his head, snapping out of whatever evil thoughts his mind had slipped into, sending Pitch a look before continuing on.

"Do you not have better things to do?" He snapped, but truly Pitch had no further plans other than, _Watch Loki go crazy_. Even if he had, previous obligations would have been swept away by such an important and potentially dangerous turn of events. If this was going where Pitch thought it was, he wasn't intending to simply stand-by on the sidelines.

\--

Hel could hear her father's approach as she always did. He had made a ritual of his rampaging in, distressing those whom Hel would rather remain calm, upsetting people when he had no need to. Whether it was to amuse himself or make an impression was not a question worth answering. Usually it was both.

This time, however, it had been neither. Rather, Loki had simply been in a hurry.

Hel only ever got visits from her father when he had appropriate reason. They had never been allowed anything more. Asgard watched Helheim with unblinking eyes and unwavering attention. Or, at least, they tried to. When Hel had progressed far enough in magic there was only so much she was willing to put up with in regards to the boundaries and privacy of her realm. She instated a policy, an agreement with the golden realm, which decreed their gatekeeper keep his eyes from her lands if they did not want the draugr upon them. Draugr, as it turned out, proved to be a compelling enough threat for them to back down. That, and the knowledge that she would keep to her word. Hel had a bad habit of going through with her threats when provoked.

Usually, the reasons Loki was allowed visitation involved political motivation, or a simple check up from Asgard. They constantly assigned Loki as their emissary. In truth, he was the only volunteer.

It worked in their favour, however, since Hel could only deny her own father so much. Especially when he brought with him those little trinkets and gifts he would shower her with, or a smile, or an embrace. Sometimes Hel could hate him, want him eradicated and gone from the nine realms more than she could dare to function, but that only happened after long stretches spent apart when the evil festering in these lands and those surrounding fed upon her weaknesses, her past and her anger, and gained strength from them. A single appearance from Loki, however, put her back to where she had been before: resenting her father, perhaps, but always caring, because he'd often lived through another new experience as bad as those she herself endured.

The first sign Hel had that something was wrong this time, however, was when her father immediately called out to her without his usual polite greetings and affectionate gifts.

The second was that he simply thrust forward his empty hands and demanded her help. It was most uncouth of him, and something Loki under any normal circumstances would not debase himself to do. Not in front of his daughter, at least.

Then again, having ones magic bound was certainly a distressing happening. Perhaps she was being a little harsh in her judgements.

"I cannot undo this spell." She informed him promptly, without even having to truly study the enchantment. "It is not in my power. Only one can break these binds."

" _I_ can as well." He corrected her snippily. "If only I had access to more of my own seiðr-"

"But you do not." She interrupted with a small, insincere smile. "If that is all you needed me for, you may leave. Please take your friend with you."

The shadows shifted uneasily when Hel directed her smile briefly their way. They did not reply to her goading.

Loki was staring at his wrists, then up to her, mouth twisted into a snarl. "Do you know of the danger, Hel? Can you feel it in the wind?"

"What wind?" Whilst she certainly received news, often and ever updating, Helheim was lacking so called _wind_ or any messages that may be carried upon it in recent times. For all the bodies which arrived daily by the thousand, there had been nothing mentioned which suggested any major threat was lurking beyond the horizon. Her father seemed to be implying the opposite, as if he knew something the rest of the universe did not.

Hel narrowed her eyes suspiciously, drawing herself up to her full height - on eye-level with her father now - and watched how he did not give a single clue away.

She clenched the small bit of metal she had carried from her chambers in her hand, and resolved then and there not to give it to him. Now was not the time where either of them could handle the gift she hid tightly away within her fist.

"I need some help." He admitted slowly, as if every word was choking him. "Only to move on to another realm. After that I will make my own path."

"Do you not have your own shadow pet to assist you?" She aimed towards the shadow, a different one now, which reacted by growing larger and surrounding her threateningly. She wasn't concerned. Pitch wouldn't do anything here, not to her, and certainly not when her father was standing in plain sight.

"He has taken me from Asgard. I do not wish to rely on him any further."

"A wise choice." She acknowledged. The shadows did not become angry this time. Rather, they receded a mite, as if accepting this truth graciously. Possibly with a little pride.

"Will you help me?" He asked.

"Where do you intend to go?"

Loki winced, caught out, and Hel understood.

"You will not find him." She said, and he growled.

"I'm not looking for him."

Loki's daughter did not believe him. She was very sensitive to the presence of falsehoods.

"What are you planning?" She asked him next, and he only smiled. It was tight, thin and made only for presentation. It was a front familiar to her; one her mother used only once when confronted with a truth that was too terrible to tell a child.

"Take me to Alfheim. I will not need your assistance any further than that."

She nodded though she did not wish to, but she recognised when her father would speak no more on a subject. There was no point in pushing him further. All it would achieve was his ire and his cunning wits finding a new method of getting his way. One that would end in tears, she had no doubt.

"Tell me how you escaped." She demanded of him as payment.

"I killed the men standing in my way."

"All of them?"

He hesitated. "No."

"Why not?"

"They did not need to die." It was a weak excuse. He did not wish to say that they had once been his kinsmen, and Loki had not destroyed them due to sentimentality. Nostalgia. Loki acknowledging such a thing would likely destroy whatever plots were lurking inside his brilliant mind.

"And what of your family?"

"They will not forgive me."

"Even your mother?"

"Especially her. I tried to push her away from me, but instead I almost killed her." He admitted, and in the words Hel found her father. She hadn't immediately noticed, but it was now clear he had otherwise been missing from the beginning of their bitter reunion.

She caught his arm gently and started to sow the magic into the air which would transport him from her realm and into the next. "Well," she told him softly as he started to fade, touching his wrists pointedly. "You should not have stopped at _almost_."

He was gone in the next instant and Pitch fled from her abode soon after, leaving Hel alone once more. She mused on her own words, wondering if they had been the right thing to say. Ultimately she was secure in the knowledge they had been, simply because had Loki not spared Frigga's life the spell would have broken and he would have been free to travel without her aid. In this hypothetical, she would never had been clued on to the fact that her father was teetering on the edge of something dark. Something horrific. Not even the Æsir with all their suspicions would have come to her - they would have been too scared that she would join her father, as consumed by the ancient tales as they were. She would have been left in the dark until it was too late.

Except for one. A single Áss may have sought her out eventually: her uncle, the mighty Thor, god of thunder. Well, Hel decided as she moved back to her private quarters and forcefully deposited the silver bead she had spent months slaving over and had intended to give her father as a present, perhaps it was time to pay her extended family a visit.

And perhaps then she would be able to find out what was going on and make a move to prevent it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Odin hate = not my thing. I'm always really angry at Odin (largely thanks to the fandom) right up until I re-watch Thor. Then I remember he's just a guy who was dealing with a lot of shit and tried to do his best in a particularly shitty world and really loved his sons and yes, maybe he could have waited until everyone was safe on dry land and not dangling above a drop into the belly of space to tell Loki off, but come on. He's not evil. He's a ruler trying to do his best for everyone, and sometimes that means overreacting or making stupid choices. No one's perfect.


	8. Family Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, fuck, guys. I am touched by your continued interest in my fic. Please don't ever stop commenting. <3
> 
> Two chapters in under a week? It's a miracle. I enjoyed writing this chapter, though. So. 
> 
> Oh, and the title is me sorta dedicating this chapter to swoopswoop. It was her birthday yesterday. :)

Where the library in Asgard was singular, broad, cavernous and full to bursting, libraries on Earth were a lot different. For one, there were more of them. In any one city, a bibliophile was spoiled for choice when they craved a new book. There was information available at every turn of corner, a new world to drop into or a new fact to discover. In truth, the endless possibilities held within a library was fascinating, riveting and outrageously tempting. However, Jack had never heard the good things about libraries. As the guardian of fun who watched over the children of the world, libraries were often considered the epitome of evil.

Jack had never questioned otherwise. To him, libraries were the home of schoolwork and study, and he had no interest in that. He was the bringer of the snow day, the changer of the weather, the artist of the frost. He didn't belong inside where books lived. He didn't belong inside at all.

However, inside was where he found himself now, glancing through the shelves and straining his eyes in the low light. He'd come at night, of course, because locks were no problem to the spirit of winter, and it was better he visit when it was under populated. Since adults could not see him on Earth (and hadn't Asgard been a nice change -  or, it would have been had they not all  started screaming for his blood) it was better they not observe the area as he browsed through the selections, lest they see floating books.

Jack was looking for something very particular and wasn't completely sure if he'd find anything. But, he considered, this was the Library of Congress. If it wasn't here then he was probably stuck.

He'd not been home long. Actually, as soon as his feet had touched the ground he'd waved a brief hello to the moon and rushed straight to Washington. It was nice to have his powers again, after the somewhat disorienting and terrifying feeling of being defenceless in a dangerous place. Not that he hadn't known that was coming - his friends had warned him of it before he'd stolen himself away.

Thor had seen him off when Frigga had excused herself. They had gone in search of Odin, but a few laps around the palace had shown he was not someplace obvious. It had been the walk which had cleared Jack's head, however, and made him realise that perhaps confronting Odin again wasn't for the best. Not when he had such a big secret to hide.

His uncle and grandmother had, regretfully on their part, agreed with him.

"It is a shame you both cannot meet with the truth laid bare." Thor told him after Frigga had bid Jack goodbye with an embrace. "My father is not an evil man."

"How come _my_ father doesn't want Odin to know, then?"

"It is complicated." Thor admitted with a sigh. "It is to do with a very difficult and convoluted past. Most of which we all played a part in, and the entirety of which we wish could have ended differently. My brother only wants to protect you from that."

Jack could read in between the lines. "That means you're not gonna tell me, right?"

Thor's tragic face answered in place of his tongue.

"Well then, I think that's that. I might as well return home." Jack didn't let any of his thoughts play out on his face, such as his burning curiosity and the sudden inkling of an idea building at the back of his mind. A loophole. An independent way around the restrictions Frigga and Thor were trying so hard to keep his knowledge contained to.

The god of thunder offered to allow Jack use of the Bifrost - _we have figured out how to work it even whilst it's being rebuilt_ , he exclaimed - but Jack had his own way back which seemed a mite more subtle. His stolen snowglobe was thankfully still intact and he was more willing to trust that then a scary piece of recently renewed and possibly untested alien technology.

Thor, bless his soul, had very pointedly done the opposite of Frigga. Instead of embrace him, though he looked as if he might want to, the god simply put a great hand to Jack's back, instructing him to never be a stranger.

"You are family, Jack. You must always remember that we are there for you."

And then Jack had left for Earth. In a way, it was a little strange to be back. He hadn't been absent for very long at all, but since then everything had altered. Jack's world view seemed that bit more skewered, what with meeting relatives that lived and breathed, and being so close but just missing his father. It seemed a little weird, therefore, to note that nothing had so much as stirred on the little blue and green planet in the meantime.

Now he found himself lost in the great library, unaware of how libraries worked and trying to figure out the number system on the spines to no real success. He gave up on that eventually and took his time scanning over titles.

Finally, a few hours into his search, he stumbled upon a promising collection of works: _Viking Myths and Legends_.

For all that Frigga and Thor had warned him away from prying, he couldn't help his inquisitive nature. And, if the answers were all ready to be found in a book, then it wasn't like they were that much of a secret. They may be subjects unspoken about on Asgard but hopefully the Vikings weren't quite as tight-lipped.

He perched on a chair like a good student, and handled the book carefully. His frost-inducing touch was not ideal for book reading so he tried to make contact with the object as minimally as possible.

And there it all was, laid out like Christmas morning. Jack flitted his eyes over the pages explaining Odin and Thor and Frigga, then many other gods like Sif and Freyja and Freyr. There were pages on species further into the book - the distinction between Æsir and Jötnar included - and then even later were the stories. First and foremost, however, Jack was interested in his father.

Loki, he immediately noticed, was not a figure described as well liked. The spirit had gathered as much in his time spent on Asgard. When he had been alive and living with Loki had also shown nothing differing - Jack's father was not a man skilled in the art of making friends. He seemed not to have the patience for it. There were his family, which he put great effort and love and time into and who he would work hard to keep happy, and there were people he was obligated to put up with, such as Jack's grandfather on his mother's side, or in fact that entire side of the family, or the people he worked with. And then there was _everyone else_. Friends didn't fit into the overall scheme of things for Loki, who'd much rather focus solely on the people he loved.

The same seemed to be true in the mythology, broadly. That was, assuming that the reader was capable of inferring the more romantic side of Loki's tale. Largely, the texts portrayed Jack's father in a harsh light, calling him a trickster, a liar, and highly fickle. A promiscuous man who'd take on lovers quickly, easily, largely without discrimination, and, thinking back to the sheer amount of lost loved ones on Loki's door, Jack could probably accept that. However, it wasn't something he was happy to think about, because it was gross.

And then there was a section on the children, and a name became immediately apparent to him: _Sleipnir_.

Jack read it over twice before flicking to the index to look up Sleipnir properly. There was a page dedicated to the horse, and on it was a frightfully inaccurate picture along with a story. The picture almost offended Jack, in that it wasn't even the right _colour_ , before he realised such details would have been lost over the course of time. People nowadays considered Norse legends to be just that - myths. They didn't care about what colour an apparently imaginary horse was. Jack, on the other hand, who had stood in the presence of the intimidating but glorious creature, couldn't help but feel slighted by that.

Especially now, when the truth came spilling out of the page of their relation.

Jack had tried to ask Frigga why she thought it was appropriate that Jack meet a horse. Sure, it was cool and everything and Jack enjoyed interacting with an equine that was not trying to throw him or run away from him for once, but it didn't seem to make much sense. Now, however, Jack started to understand.

The back story itself made Jack feel no shortage of discomfort, and he was almost queasy when he flicked back to Loki's page and read on. He felt like there was something missing in the tale of Sleipnir's conception, and would try to ask someone else about it if he could work up the guts. He was unsure he would, however. He was on the verge of attempting to forget the whole business completely. Mind bleach would not be unwelcome.  

Then he read the names of his other siblings: Fenrir, Jörmungandr, Hel, Narfi and Vali. They were the only other ones mentioned, though there was a side note claiming that, due to Loki's travels and sexually wanton habits (an unwanted mental image if there ever had been, and mind bleach was looking increasingly attractive), there were probably many other unknown offspring across the realms. Others like Emma and Jack, they meant.

As Jack read on, he wondered how true that actually was. The thing was that Loki didn't seem to have a great deal of luck with his children, he realised, and Jack's death was, in a way, merely another unfortunate event in a long timeline of tragedies. Sleipnir may have stayed in Asgard, but the next three were banished and, if the prophecies were true, Narfi and Vali were not in for a happy future. That was another legend which made Jack ill, and after finishing it he snapped the book closed violently, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

With a string of colourful words, Jack sat back and ran his mind over what he had just read. Ragnarök was the one prophecy which played heavily on his mind. The image of his father grinning toothily at the top of Stark Tower in New York staring down at the blazing city below reappeared alongside the words ringing in his ears, and he swore again before pushing away from the table.

Is this what the people of Asgard had been so terrified of? After all, an attack on Asgard had only ever been spoken of in the words of the Ragnarök prophecies. What they had thought was a suspected Frost Giant attack had been an accidental panic button Jack had certainly not meant to press. No wonder they had all gone crazy about it.

And then Loki breaking out immediately after? Definitely suspicious. Whether the escape involved intestines or not, Loki did get out and he immediately disappeared, supposedly with evil intents. Apparently, Heimdall the Gatekeeper had seen something odd about Loki when the god of lies had confronted him. Loki had been ' _unhinged_ '. Earth had _that one_ figured out a long time before Heimdall had thought to put it into so many words.

Jack left the library swiftly after he'd slipped the book back into place, heading once more to the North Pole. There were certain things he was still unclear on, and too many questions he needed answers for. His little research project simply made everything that bit more confusing. However, now he had names for his siblings - children of Loki's beyond himself and Emma. But he knew nothing about them, other than some startling rumours which may or may not be the product of word of mouth twisting tales as they were passed through the generations, until they were nothing more than the extreme versions of original, less insane plot-lines.

And there was also one name which had especially stood out for the winter spirit. A location; a place which, with the help of a few more stolen snowglobes, Jack could very easily find his way to: _Island Lyngvi_.

\--

Beads were not in the culture of the Æsir.

In fact, outside some ancient and primitive societies on Midgard, they were not major factors in the culture of any realm.

And yet, the offspring of Loki and Angrboða took beads very seriously, almost to the point of obsession. The gifting of beads amongst themselves was a habit which had been started by Hel's mother, and one which the two family members who remained free kept alive.

Angrboða had always been very taken by her own fiery red hair. She would play with it constantly, or have Loki weave it into a braid at night, thread pretty objects into it such as flowers or colourful strings, whilst she herself had her hands upon the hair of her children. The first bead had been crafted by Angrboða on a whim, having caught sight of humans with them about themselves, and she made it for Fenrir when he was but a boy. The child did not argue when his mother placed it amid his night-black hair, as no one ever would openly speak out against Angrboða when she set her mind to something. She was not a woman to be trifled with, as Loki had learnt the hard way.

After that, birthdays and other celebrations were marked with the gifting of beads, crafted usually by the parents, though Fenrir and Jörmungandr always claimed to help when they were old enough to preen under any form praise.

It almost broke Angrboða's heart when Fenrir decided to take after his father and cut off all of his lengthy hair. The wife of Loki had always detested the fact her husband kept his hair very firmly short with it hardly touching the bottom of his neck. She stated it made him look like a slave. Loki constantly returned with either one of two answers: The first was that he _was_ his father's servant, as all Æsir were. This was a statement he would later revise. The second was when he said, usually jokingly: _wasn't that the point?_ This had never made sense to the children until later, when Loki explained how precisely he and their mother had met.

It had been during a visit to Earth for Loki, who, along with his brother and the warriors three, were greeted by villagers who were scared of a ogre living nearby. Ogres, monstrous creatures with no regard for reason, were known to feast on humans; snatching people away at night. Immediately, the five gods agreed to assist.

As it turned out, Loki was the only one to venture into the apparent ogre cave, simply to discover it was not an ogre at all. Though no one had been present when he snuck in, he had been able to discern the difference due to a number of factors such as cave size, evidence of certain non-human food and the apparent strange habits of this creature atypical of ogres. He concluded that whoever lingered in this rough habitat were not what the villagers believed. Loki thought it was more likely to be an intelligent troll than an ogre.

It had been. Said intelligent troll had been Angrboða, who had been clever enough to be capable of telling that there had been a foreign presence in her home upon return after a hunt. She had also noticed a fair few of her more precious belongings missing, such as some vargr furs and jewels from her home realm. She could track Loki as easily as he could have had her had the situations been reversed. She had suspected him of theft.

She had confronted him in the halls of Odin, where Loki had denied all charges. Though he did not have the stolen objects about him nor in his chambers, he also had no real proof he had not taken them. In front of the court, Odin was forced into allowing Angrboða to stipulate her price for her missing treasure. She had demanded Loki pay off his debt with work. She needed a permanent home on Midgard, somewhere far from humans and a place where she could reliably maintain her own life, isolated from the rest of the world. Loki was to help her with that.

He did not comply willingly, constantly restating his innocence, but it wasn't until many years later that the truth was found when they found her jewels for sale on a market in Álfheim.

During the period in which he found and fertilised a previously barren area of land in Norway with magic, Loki found himself infatuated with life on Midgard; a place which was eternally in motion and changing and strange. He helped her create her home, lived with her through her first harvest, and when the time came for him to return home he point-blank refused. As if in a fairytale, they had found themselves falling in love.

Asgard had not been happy with the loss of their prince, but there was little they could do to stop his will. At least, as it were, until the prophecies came to light.

In the meantime, however, there had been children born and raised. And beads became a habit.

They were, in a way, a symbol of their family. Whilst Loki and Fenrir only wore beads on special occasions, Angrboða and Jörmungandr took pride in their long, orange hair and wore their beads almost constantly. Loki and Fenrir's hair was too short to wear the amount of beads they owned at any one time, so kept them on a string and would wear that instead. It was a habit Loki only fell out of when the string became too delicate and worn with age to securely keep hold of its valued load.

Hel had been too young to join in with these traditions. However, she still had a beads of her own, hand-made by her mother, which had been given to her during those few precious years they all spent together. There were more from Loki, who had continued with his gifting of beads - granting them not only to Hel, but also to Sleipnir and the other people he came to love over the course of his life.

Hel learnt the hard way that she was not skilled in the art of crafting. Perhaps it was due to her surroundings - the fires in her realm did not burn hot, so it took several years to meld what took only hours elsewhere. But that was okay, since she had the time to waste. Furthermore, she could never think of any original pattern which she liked enough to embed forever in metal as a gift to any one member of her family. Though she had made several for her siblings (Sleipnir included) and her father over time, she was never completely happy with them. She was often tempted to throw the ones intended for her two lost brothers away forever whenever she set eyes upon them, partly due to the fact she did not think they would be good enough for her brothers, and partly to do with what they symbolised. Every time she put a new bead amid the others which were sitting patiently in a small bowl in her private rooms, meant that another so many decades had passed since she had seen them last. The beads counted the time period splitting herself from her family.

Loki's and Sleipnir's were never present for too long, however, since Loki took them with him when he visited. He always brought a new bead for her and she, like Angrboða and Jörmungandr had, wore them in her hair at all times. She had her maids braid them in fresh every morning and secure them for night so she would not lose them in her sleep. Every single one was significant, though she understandable treasured some over others. For exampe, the ones from her mother. They were the oldest and the least worn. Hel locked them up tight when she did not have them about her, and had them proudly on display at the forefront of her hair when she did. Similar laws went with the ones from her brothers - beads that were obviously guided by adult hands, but were childish enough to be from inexperienced craftsmanship. They had made them for her when they were only children.

It was a rare occasion when Loki dropped by bereft of a bead to give her. Usually it would be more than one from him - they were things he made in his spare time, and one constantly for every holy day - but there were times when Loki had been in such a rush that he had not even thought of the beads before bursting through her doors. They were often instances which were punctuated by tragedies which consumed him, such as the day that Jackson had died and Loki had rode into Helheim like Frost Giants were at his back in the search of his young son, or more recently when he had broken free of Asgard with his magic bound tight, wanting a solution to his problem.

Hel had a bead ready for him that second time. However, he had obviously been in no mood to receive such treasure.

Beads, or the lack of them, therefore suggested urgency in his reasons for visiting her realm. It was what had alarm bells ringing in Hel's head as soon as she greeted her father in the halls. That and the look in his eyes. The ones that said he could hardly even remember the significance of beads himself.

Had Hel deigned to give him the bead she had spent many long hours slaving over, it was likely he would have simply dismissed it. Had he done that, Hel did not know how she would have reacted. She did not like to linger on such thoughts, for fear of what she would find. It could have torn her apart. She could have torn _him_ apart.

Instead, to distract herself and keep her mind focused on more immediate matters than simply hypotheticals, she contacted her uncle. As the prince of Asgard, Thor was one of the few likely to know precisely what was happening. Similarly, he was the only one Hel could trust, even marginally, within Asgards walls. Therefore, he was her best bet.

What she hadn't expected was for him to ask _her_ what Loki was thinking.

"My father has called a meeting," he informed her secretively, worriedly. "It consists of elders, wise men and sorcerers only. Such things are never gathered unless it is of grave importance."

She had assumed as such. However, this boded ill for her father.

"You must help me find him." She demanded, but Thor shook his head. When she shot him a poisonous glance he barely even flinched. He, apparently, had moral duties elsewhere.

"We believe he may at some point return to Midgard. It has always been his favourite haunt. Further, he recently made an attack upon it and was stopped. If he is in any violent state of mind, revenge could be at the forefront of his thoughts. I am the protector of Midgard and must do my duty to ensure it is protected  from my brother's wrath. I am unsure of what he is capable of at the moment, even with his powers bound."

It seemed a sound argument, but it felt too tentative for Hel's tastes.

"It is foolish to lie in wait for his attack," she spat towards him patronisingly. "It is better to lure him into a trap and secure him."

"My brother cannot be caught by such things. If he could be, he would be incarcerated already. We are not as idiotic on Asgard as you like to assume."

"Surely there must be something that can get through to him? You know him better than I."

Something shifted across Thor's expression, and although he tried to hide it Hel's eyes were too quick for him. She saw it, she interpreted it and she grilled him on it before he could react.

"You know something."

He held up his hands placidly, shaking his head. "I thought of it, but it would put an innocent life on the line. I am not willing to do that."

"I am not so decent. What is it that can trap him? Do you not realise the importance of finding him sooner rather than later? Better now than before he has chance of getting free of his chains."

Thor only shook his head, frowning mightily and looking to end the conversation. "I will not give in to you. I will not endanger a life so recklessly."

"So you will leave Loki to your father? You do recollect what Odin calls 'mercy'?" She glanced down to herself, standing in stark contrast to her environment of Asgard, which glittered golden where she was drab; clad in flowing draperies of grey and black. Thor looked guilty, tortured, but he did not budge in his moral stance.

She left him then, fuming with rage, and started to work up her own plan. If Thor would not tell her then she would find out herself. She had more connections than simply her father's brother - there were answers out there lying in wait, and she was more than capable at playing detective.

\--

Though it had taken longer than he intended - almost two days since Jack Frost had left the realm for Midgard - he had finally succeeded in collected everyone together. Now firmly locked away in the smallest, most private halls in the palace, Odin had called upon the most powerful of sorcerers across the realms. Ashamed as they be that too few of them were stronger than Loki individually, together they at least stood a chance of preventing whatever was to come. Luckily, Odin believed he knew what that was.

"The cycle is coming to an end," He announced across the gathered company, who all shook their heads in distress and called out angrily.

"This is _your_ son! You should have put a stop to it! Killed him when you had the chance!"

They continued to blame Odin until his patience wore thin. He commanded silence with little more than a few taps of Gungnir and stared across the men and women huddled together, glaring up at him in fear. Not fear of him, however, but fear of what was destined to come.

"There is an obvious solution." He said, though they looked to disagree.

"With Loki escaped, what can we do? He will find his hideous brood and release them as he has done himself! It is _written_!"

Odin did not believe prophecies were the be all and end all of the future. They were warnings, things to avoid, things to watch out for. He had always believed he could evade them. Unfortunately, as time and history told with great eloquence, it did not always work out that way. More often than not, knowledge of the future and the actions taken to elude it ended in the pre-determined path as easily as ignorance did.

That didn't mean he was not going to try. He had people relying on him to do the right thing, and the right thing was to try and stop the end before it had the chance start. Before too many lives were lost.

"Prophecy is not set in stone." He spoke imperiously into the room, and they all fell silent to listen. He was their ruler, the ultimate decider, and therefore, no matter how begrudgingly, it was their duty to turn their ears when Odin talked. "Many of the details of the foretelling have not come to pass, and yet Ragnarök is still upon us. It is true that his children are involved, and that is precisely what I have called upon you to address."

This, at least, roused some interest, with furrowed eyebrows questioning what could be done about the monsters destined to play such a crucial role in the reaping of the end.

"They are under out influence still - trapped within their cages. Loki has not found them yet, and without help nor will he ever. But we must still be wary. Should they break of their bindings on their own they will find him instead. They are powerful, terrifying beings. One is the Midgard serpent - vicious and angry and destructive. He is a shape-shifter who plays tricks upon the humans; oftentimes leading them to their deaths. He is a potent enemy, said to go up against my son in a final battle to the death. I will do anything to avoid that.

"The other is the wolf, Fenrir - a giant of his kind with his own offspring chasing the sun and the moon in the sky. He himself is a cunning, mighty foe - stronger than any being should allow for, capable of great violence if forced. He took the flesh of his keeper out of spite, leaving Týr with only one hand."

The hall knew all of this already - these were learned people of magic and wisdom, who slaved over books instead of training for battle. They were people more akin to Loki than Thor, but they all had good hearts and wished not for the coming wars. It was clear how eager they were to take Odin at his word - that he had an idea which could erase the threat of these beasts once and for all. And he did. Further, it was one that did not involve any sort of killing. Odin was determined that _no_ lives would be lost, not even those of the creatures said to destroy the universe. He would not do that to Loki, and nor would he to his children if there were other options available, even if they were more difficult. It was the least he could do to start building bridges across the lake of hatred and resentment that split him and his son apart.

Theoretically, Odin thought, if he could connect Loki back to him emotionally, perhaps he could prevent the risk of any apocalypse happening in the future as well.

"We must take their magic from them." He proposed.

It was a simple enough plan, but one which cause unease amongst the mages standing afore him. The sudden sombre tone was brought about not only due to the difficulty involved in splitting one from their magic, but also from the implications behind it.

As highly skilled magicians themselves, these were people that could not for an instant imagine life without their seiðr. They were people distressed by the idea of the magic locked from them, as Frigga had done to Loki, never mind _torn_ from them completely and definitively.  

The latter was what Odin was advising. It was no use simply binding the magic of the monsters, since there would be no way to maintain it. A sturdy bond such as that needed an emotional connection to keep the strength of it secure, and only Loki had the depth of feeling for the creatures required for such a spell. It would be useless for them to attempt it, therefore.

However, _breaking_ a connection of a mage to their seiðr did not have such prerequisites. Rather, it merely involved great strength of will. No single mage could do it alone. However, Odin had a plentiful collection of them in a single room, so that would be no issue either.

Eventually it was clear that their discomfort was overshadowed by their desire to be safe, to be free of the burden of worry. To not have to be scared of the great wolf and the serpent any more, or ever again. The two shape-shifters would be rendered back to their original form, whatever that may be, with only their strength and intelligence to rely on. If they caused any trouble, they would prove no challenge to dispatch. Without their magic, they would be essentially mortal.

The warriors of any realm would be able to protect themselves from the two creatures, in that instance, even if they maintained their power of the serpent and wolf; even if those were their true forms. No planet would be lost to them, in such a case. Consequently, Ragnarök would never start at all.

Thus Odin took little time in starting the chant. Very quickly the magic in the room accumulated as each mage joined him, and with all this power it took only a thought to sever the thread of seiðr from both Fenrir and Jörmungandr's reach.

Loki may still be a looming problem, but at least his children no longer were. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay, slowly I'm getting there. Sorry about all the background, but I needed some sort of back story for Angrboða and Loki to be established and this one has been playing in my mind for a while. 
> 
> Ahh, guys, can't you smell that plot on the horizon? I'm so excited to write the next few chapters, so they'll probably be up soon. :D 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Too Long, Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this really quickly because I was excited. Also, I really didn't want to do my work. I eventually ended up telling myself that I wasn't allowed to post this until I finished all my work, so that you're reading this now means I'm not going to fail my course, so hip-hip hooray for me.  
> Hope you like it!

It had taken him too long to sneak the snowglobes from under North's nose. The problems the Guardian of Fun faced were two-fold: One, Jack didn't want North or any of the workers at Santa's Workshop to know he was there (because that would be too much of a kerfuffle and would set Jack back longer than he wanted to), and two, North had made sure to move the snowglobes to a safer location.

The latter issue only became annoying when Jack spent longer than he intended sneaking around North's office, riffling through drawers. His one saving grace remained that it was Christmas time, and North was going to be in his office less and less over the coming weeks.

Unfortunately, the more Jack did this, the more likely it was that North and Phil were going to crack down on security, which was precisely why Jack intended to take precautions.

The first of which was not letting anyone know he was back on Earth for the time being. Perhaps it was unfair to keep his fellow Guardians worried, since he knew how much they cared, but Jack had more important things to consider. He'd get them all an apologetic gift basket when he came home.

His second safeguard was that he was going to grab as many snowglobes as he could feasibly carry so he didn't have to continually break in and steal things from _Santa Claus_ , of all people. He knew North didn't mind and it wasn't like he hadn't been on the naughty list enough times, but it still felt wrong.

Hopefully he'd be able to figure out a better way of getting around in between now and the next time he needed to travel to a different realm. Unfortunately, the quick and safe journey of the snowglobes was the most efficient he'd so far come across.

Like last time, Jack knew he'd stumbled across the right place when alarms started going off. Immediately Yetis were pounding their way towards him with the jingle-jangle of eager elves running after them, but Jack swiped the first five he could grab and threw one into the centre of the room.

"Island Lyngvi!" He exclaimed, and immediately the snowglobe swirled into life. Through the portal Jack could see clear sky and sun, not his favourite of weathers, but he dived into it regardlessly as soon as the doors slammed open to reveal Phil looking particularly irate.

Jack hadn't taken a thought to consider the fact that his powers were lessened on different planets since he was far, far away from the influence of the Man in the Moon. It had been alright last time, after all.

North's portals were particularly troublesome in that a traveller could never be sure where they'd end up. Jack, for example, could have been sent straight onto the white sand of the beach, or in the darkened canopy of trees, or on top of the rockier side of the island.

As it were, he found himself falling fast through the air, desperately trying to gather a wind so he wouldn't land _splat_ on the ground and make a bad impression in front of his brother. He was meeting another member of his family and he didn't want to look like an idiot.

However, that seemed to be too tall an order from Jack. The island appeared to be too far from any real form of magic in the air for Jack to even have the slightest influence upon the winds. He landed hard on his back in the sand, therefore, groaning from the impact. He lay there for a few moments, trying to catch the breath knocked straight out of him, staring up at the cloudless skies.

He felt lethargic in the heat, light-headed and clumsy as his thoughts steadily fried. Only one true notion stayed in his head for longer than a few seconds and that was _cold, shade, trees_. He was the spirit of winter, and yet here he was, stuck on a desert island at what seemed to be the height of summer. He really should have thought about differing seasonal patterns before jumping straight into the portal.

It took him two tries to successfully get only his hands and knees so he could scramble away from the sun and into the nearby trees. He spent another few minutes resting against them in the cooler but still too hot environment before he decided that the sooner he moved to find his brother, then the sooner he could get away from here.

However, that was significantly easier said than done.

Not only was he having trouble with the heat, but there were immediate problems navigating the untamed landscape. It was clear that this was an uninhabited place and rarely visited by anyone of any description. There were some native animals crawling about the trees, and a few bold birds circling in the air, but no evidence of more advanced life. This, considering what Jack had read about his brother, was not a big surprise.

From what he had gathered in the book, Fenrir was huge, scary and strong. He was also dangerous. But then, they said that about Loki as well, so Jack was tentative to take it at face value. He'd also read something about a sword and a river?

Jack could definitely hear a small trickle of something, though a 'river' may be pushing it. He followed the noise and found he had been correct in his assumptions - it was hardly more than a stream, if that, though it was steady and clear. It was also a lead.

The spirit followed it up to the rockier areas of the island; parts of the landscape which suddenly became steep and slippery and perilous. Jack didn't have to worry about himself, it took a lot more than that to hurt Jack Frost, but any trespassers would be put off by the sudden change from solid, forest ground to jagged rocks underfoot.

He climbed down as silently as he could, still wary of what he would disturb if he made any loud noises. He certainly didn't want to startle a giant wolf, no matter how closely related they were. He further felt that his idea was sound when he noticed there was a wooden man-made structure nearby, clearly made for easy access to this side of the island with boats. People did come here, and they could arrive at any time. He didn't want to startle them, either.

Jack was aware of a certain god - Týr - who had been Fenrir's keeper. No doubt this was his method of visiting, or checking up, or whatever he did when he came to see Jack's brother.

The brother that Jack couldn't immediately see. He glanced around confused, wondering where someone managed to hide a giant wolf on an island so small.

He was almost tempted to call out, but he didn't know what sort of reception he'd get. It was better to keep silent, to approach Fenrir steadily and not aggravate him any more than was necessary.

He started to pull himself over craggy stones, looking round every corner in an attempt to find another clue of some kind. Anything. But the shadows were proving to be just another obstacle to overcome, in that most of the time he could peer into a neatly hidden crevice just to find he wasn't able of even clearly distinguishing the outline of the wall, never mind where the darkened path led to. He avoided them, therefore, and continued to wish he had even a little magic to play with.

"Where are you?" He spoke, more to himself than to the island, but he realised his mistake as soon as he said it. His voice carried along the rocks, magnified by the silence, and Jack winced at the echoing sound of his own voice. However, his regret faded when he heard an answering call.

He probably shouldn't define it as such, since 'call' suggested some form of voluntary action. The slither of sound which replied to his own was likely better described as a knee-jerk reaction. Something instinctive. A noise of surprise.

Well, Jack would be surprised too if he were stuck all alone here and then suddenly heard a sound which he hadn't come to immediately recognise. He was going to assume it had been the wolfy equivalent of a gasp.

He followed it, obviously, because here was a genuine hint towards where his brother was. He realised that keeping silent now was not productive to either of them, so tried to urge another reaction out of Fenrir - or, who he was going to assume was Fenrir - by calling his name and introducing himself.

"Hey, hey, I'm Jack. I'm not here to hurt you! Where are you?" But Fenrir didn't reply. Instead, Jack was forced to keep on looking, peeking his head behind every boulder to ensure he didn't walk right by.

Then he caught the sound of his own voice resonating back at him, louder and with much more boom than elsewhere on the island. He turned his head, trying to locate the source of the odd discrepancy in the sound, running his fingers down a complicated pattern of stones. He found the stream again where it had been lost amid the uneven ground, and he followed it through the twists and turns of the densely packed rocks.

"Are you here?" He called, and was returned with a very clear sign of shifting. There was a clink of metal - the chain used to tie him up, no doubt - and, nervously, Jack stepped forward.

It was as dark in here as it was everywhere else, shaded very firmly from the sun. Jack was almost hesitant to step forward, in case he trip over something... or someone. He tried again to reach out for some magic, anything at all would do, but there was nothing. He shook his staff sharply, as if that would help, before giving up.

There was a small slither of light near where he stood, produced by a gap in the ceiling. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make out the shadowy evidence of where a fire had been lit and some tinder nest to start a new one.

He knelt down, patting his hands around to see whether there was anything surrounding it which could be used to light it up, to no avail. Instead, however, Jack thought back to when he was young - when, in the winter, Loki taught him how to make a fire out of ice.

There was not enough magic around him to fly on the winds or produce a light on his own, but forming a clear and practical slab of ice was not a hardship - he was the spirit of winter, after all. Though it required more focus than he was used to, ice came to him as easily as breathing.

Immediately after he set to using the ice as a lens, focusing it on the tinder nest by angling the sun through it, praying it would work. It seemed a little far-fetched, but he had no other ideas.

It took a little while - longer than Jack would have liked, but then that seemed to be the overall summary of his day thus far - before the flammable scraps caught and light started to encroach upon the blackened insides of the cave. Jack bounced up in success, grinning and spinning to see where his brother was hiding, and was instantly confronted with monstrous blazing yellow eyes reflecting the light of the fire.

Jack yelped, falling down and scrambling back as a deep, shaking growl split from the wolf's throat and echoed around the entire island, making birds screech in the distance as they took to startled flight.

Jack stared at the creature in front of him with the same horrified but intrigued amazement he remembered feeling upon first meeting Sleipnir. Was this what he was going to be like with all his siblings? Well, if they continued on in the pattern they were going, Jack couldn't see his reaction dampening even slightly.

Fenrir, and it _had_ to be him, was enormous. Jack had seen wolves aplenty, running across the earth all over the world, majestic and no shortage of scary. They were not small creatures. They were things capable of killing a person without exerting themselves. They could likely take on the giants of the world if they were so inclined and not break a sweat.

But there were wolves, and then there was Fenrir. And Fenrir was something else. Jack felt dwarfed by the monster of an animal glaring down at him, snarling at the back of his throat in warning. It was more like realising that you were going to die by being trampled by an elephant than torn to pieces by a canine.

Jack noticed, however, that, despite how he strained, Fenrir was not getting any closer to him. He glanced down to the wolf's great paws and saw them tied tightly to a boulder by a thin coil of chain. Narrowing his eyes, he could see how it had cut into the flesh, his ankles made bare of his midnight-black fur by the constant struggle of trying to get free. Though it was thin, more like the chain of a necklace than any practical restraint, Jack knew it was unbreakable. It had to be, after all. Fenrir was stronger than almost anything else in the universe.

But that wasn't the least of it. Stuck firmly in his mouth, a sword was embedded in his gums. Perhaps it was barely more than a toothpick to the giant creature, but Jack could hardly imagine the pain of having a real toothpick stuck in his mouth, never mind a metal sword. His mouth, constantly open, was the source of the stream.

Jack immediately sat back up, crouching in front of the irate wolf, staring him down carefully with his hands splayed open in an obvious display of peace.

"Please, I am honestly not here to hurt you."

Fenrir heard him, that much was clear, but he either did not understand or he did not believe him. He only growled louder, thrashed harder against his bindings, which only hurt him more. Jack was unnerved, most definitely, but he was also stubborn. There was no way he was leaving his brother here like this if he could do anything about it.

But he also wasn't about to stick his hand in Fenrir's mouth and take out the sword. He remembered what had happened to the last guy who put his fingers anywhere near those razor-sharp fangs.

"I know you don't believe me, but I'm serious. I'm Jack, I'm from Earth. I mean I'm from Midgard, Midgard." He corrected himself quickly. Fenrir didn't stop in his attempts to get free, even as angrily pulling at his bindings only made them dig deeper into his skin.

"Please, stop!" Jack pleaded when he noticed this, wanting to approach but knowing that doing so would cost him dearly. "Please! I'm here because of my father, because of _our_ father! You're my brother, Fenrir!"

These words seemed to get through to him where everything else did not. Immediately after, the wolf ceased his mad tugs at freedom and stood, looming and terrifying, over Jack, eying him suspiciously. Jack wasn't quite sure how he was meant to prove it, but he started babbling regardless. His chatter didn't usually help to save his skin, but he supposed it never hurt either.

"Fenrir, my name is Jack Lokison. I'm 300 years old and I sort of only recently found out you even existed. Like... a few hours ago, actually. My mother's called Abigail and I have a little sister called Emma. Well, I had one. She died. You have a sister, too, right? Hel? And a brother, Jörmungandr? Is that how you pronounce it? Well, I'm your brother too. Is any of this even getting through to you?"

The cave was filled with the heavy sound of Fenrir's pants and the ever-present trickle of the stream. Jack waited anxiously for a reaction, and was tense enough to jump when all he received was another growl.

"You don't believe me?"

Fenrir glared at him, then made another, more strangled noise. These were followed by increasingly irate attempts at something, until Jack understood what was going on.

"Are you trying to talk?" He gaped, not unused to the concept of giant talking animals (he worked - and fought - with the _Easter Bunny_ on a frequent enough basis), but this seemed special. Sleipnir couldn't talk, as far as Jack could tell, and he hadn't even tried to. Fenrir, on the other hand...

"I can't understand you." He informed his brother, who only snarled once more and collapsed heavily on the ground. It seemed to be a defeated gesture, one that both gave up and dismissed Jack at the same time. He no longer had any desire to attempt to talk to this seemingly useless product of Loki's loins, and it made Jack's heart clench to observe.

"Fenrir, we can figure this out," he tried to say to the wolf. "If we could figure out a way of getting out that sword-" But Fenrir cut across him with a short bark, something which seemed more bitter than amused. Jack wasn't stupid. He knew that meant _no_.

"Wait," Jack said, a brilliant idea suddenly upon him without any prompting, and he grinned as he backed out of the cave. Fenrir's yellow gaze followed him enquiringly, and Jack held up a hand. "Wait right here, I'm going to be right back." And he ran from the dark cavern and through the small maze of rocks before producing a snowglobe and throwing it in front of him.

"The Island of the Sleepy Sands!" He instructed, and once more he fell through the portal, from one desert island to another. This time, however, his home winds were there to catch him, and he very gracefully landed upon the golden land.

"Sandy!" He called out, hoping the Sandman would be home. "Hey, you awake?" He ran towards the central heart of the island where there was a large crater in which Sandy usually slept. If he was anywhere, he was going to be found there.

"Hey, Sandy!" He called down, startling the small man into waking. The Guardian of Dreams looked up, wide eyed and surprised, to see Jack grinning down at him like a loon. Almost instantaneously the smile was returned, and Sandy came up to hug Jack tightly. A rapid sequence of pictures flitted about over his head, but Jack didn't need to read them to understand.

"Yeah, I'm okay, I promise-"

What followed, stopping Jack short, was a series of - from what Jack could tell - scathing rebukes which would have put Jack to shame had he understood a word of it. You'd have thought that by this point Jack would have got the hang of translating, but he usually had North for that.

"I get it, I'm sorry," he tried, putting his hands up and attempting a sheepish look towards the small, pouting man. "I didn't listen to any of you, and actually you _were_ right, and I understand that now. That said, can I ask a favour?"

Sandy looked at him carefully, levelling his eyes at Jack with suspiciousness rightly etched in to every edge of his expression. Jack bit his lip, but without a negative hint he felt that he could charge forward with his askance. No answer wasn't a no, right?

"There's this guy," he said slowly. "He's got a bit of a speech impediment, and he's been trying to talk to me, but I don't even know where to start. He's in a really bad situation and I want to help him, but I also want to know what he's saying, you know?"

Sandy nodded, arms crossed and aware of why Jack wanted his help. However, he was also waiting for the punch line, so Jack didn't hold back.

"The thing is, he's not on this realm, so I've borrowed a few of North's snowglobes-"

The Sandman cut across him, protesting with an outraged exclamation mark over his head.

"Yeah, I know, I'm a bad person, but if it's for a good cause I can't be _that_ evil, can I? What, have you've got a better idea to get off of the planet?"

Sandman's stern look didn't let up, but he conceded. Clearly he was as concerned about what Jack had to say, and needed to help even a stranger if it meant getting them out of any potential danger. They all would.

Jack made sure to be more specific when he directed the globe back to Lyngvi, and they thankfully appeared on ground-level. Sandy seemed a little put off by the lack of connection to the moon, but he was capable of prioritising and putting someone else's life before his own discomfort.

Jack hurried them both along back to the cave, where he found Fenrir lying awkwardly on his side, which was, due to his bindings, the only way he could manage it. When he heard them stumble in, his large head jerked up in confusion and he stared at the two intruders incredulously. He growled, threateningly again without any attempts to talk, but Jack dissuaded him. Now was not the time to give up.

"He's here to translate! He's good with stuff like this."

Fenrir's yellow eyes locked on to the meek Sandman, who was standing slightly further back than Jack and completely baffled by the turn of events and the giant creature in front of him. But then Fenrir spoke, or tried to, and Sandy started to pay attention.

It was about then when Jack realised a flaw in his genius plan.

"You gotta speak to me slowly, okay, Sandy?" He said when the Guardian turned to him in order to convert muffled wolf to Sandman signals. "I'm still learning to interpret, remember?"

Sandman rolled his eyes, but gently complied.

There was a symbol of an arrow pointing to Fenrir, then to Jack, then there was a key. Jack had to sound that out before realising he meant _Loki_.

"Fenrir and I have the same dad." Jack explained, and Sandy reacted by looking between the two of them critically. "I know," Jack smiled. "We don't look much alike."

Fenrir interrupted the two of them, waving his head over to Jack when he was finished.

Sandy then shrugged his shoulders expressively, a sign Jack had learnt meant he was trying to express a question. Keeping it to the basest of symbols, he showed a Y, an R and then another arrow pointing at Jack, before gesturing to the cave.

"Why am I here? Because I want to help," Jack answered, looking at his brother. "Can you tell him I'm telling the truth about Loki, Sandy?" Sandy complied, before asking his own question, though the winter spirit wasn't even sure the over-sized wolf would be able to follow. Sandy had his own particular dialect which was hard to get used to.

Amazingly, however, it didn't seem to faze Fenrir at all. Instead, he replied promptly, and Sandman tried to explain what they had spoken about to Jack.

What Jack gathered, roughly, was that Fenrir was unable to break free, which he knew already. The sword could not be taken out without magic or strength greater than that of his own, which Jack did not. It was also a curse upon Fenrir, considering what had gotten him into this predicament was a boast of his own strength and how it was greater than that of any living being. It was now being used against him, not only to keep him trapped but also as a torture device.

"What, so we've got to get the Hulk down here or something?" Jack surmised, but Sandy gave him a patient look. "Thor?" The youngest Guardian tried again. "He's meant to be the mightiest of all gods, right?" Sandy inclined his head at that, but Jack knew it was likely a lost cause.

"Thor's great and all," he explained. "But he won't help us. Not with this." Not when he and Frigga had begged Jack away from it, and not with the regret that gleamed in both their eyes when they spoke of Loki's other children.

If they could have done anything, Jack decided, then they would have by now.

Sandy shrugged, no further ideas coming to mind, and with it Fenrir backed away once more. The Sandman followed him, bolder now, and a much better communicator than Jack. He glanced concernedly at Fenrir's bindings, how they were red with blood both old and fresh, but knew better than to try and approach it. Fenrir himself merely curled up over them, licking his wounds with dejected acceptance. It was something he was far too used to doing.

"I need to get him out of here." Jack stood up, startling the other two with his sudden movements, waving a hand and saying he'll be back. He left the cave and clambered back up the rocks, running out to the trees and yelling to the skies.

"Pitch!" He didn't have a plan, and knew this was no way to get the boogeyman's attention, but it was better than sitting around and watching his brother suffer. "Pitch, show your face! Come on, I know you can hear me!" He didn't, and it didn't make him feel better to get angry when the Nightmare King failed to show up. He shouldn't have been surprised.

He spent a good deal of time outside, scaring animals and yelling at the canopy, but he refused to give up. He was only called away from his task when Sandy found him and tugged at his hoodie.

"What is it?"

Apparently, as Sandman tried to tell him as quickly as possible, Fenrir had heard something. Something even over Jack's yells. Or, he'd sensed something. Either way, it had made him stand to attention, tug against his chain all the more.

"Where did he sense it?"

Sandman pointed across the lake, over which Jack could just about make out a slither of land on the horizon.

"And _how_ are we meant to get over there?"

Sandy's look suggested Jack was severely lacking in the brain department whilst the picture he produced over his head was a beautiful replica of a snowglobe.

"Oh, right. Dur. But I don't know what that land is called." He said, even as he took one of the last two out of his pocket. Sandy grabbed it from him with a heavy sigh. Obviously the snowglobe understood all forms of language since, with only a thought from the golden Guardian, the portal was swirling to life and Jack and Sandy were taken along with it.

On the other side, there was exactly nothing to be found.

"It's just woods." Jack said, eying the shadows of the trees warily. "Who's going to be here?"

Sandy shushed him with a huffy breath, straining his ears to hear something beyond the call of the birds above their heads.

There _was_ a rustling that seemed out of place and, with Sandy at his back, Jack had his staff placed in front of him firmly as he stepped forward to investigate. He wasn't precisely sure what he was meant to do if there was a threat waiting for him in the approaching trees, but he wasn't just about to back down.

A swirl of black met him as he stepped ever closer, and he reared back on instinct, swinging his staff to ensure there remained some space between himself and this newfound foe. Whatever it was, it was bigger than an average animal found in a woods, and it clearly had hostile intents towards the two Guardians.

And then the air settled, the two Earthlings still startled but starting to regain their wits, whilst their would-be attacker simply stared at them from the shadows. Jack got a good look at him, being almost directly opposite the man, and he immediately faltered.

Because there stood Loki, dark-eyed and pale, standing battle-ready in front of them armed with a blade between his fingers and a dangerous tilt of his mouth.

Jack barely registered any of this, dropping his staff to his side and stepping forward, even when Sandy tried to grab him.

"It's okay," he said, voice distant as he batted the Sandman away from him, eyes focused solely on the Áss in front of him. "He's my father."

After that Sandy willingly dropped away, though had Jack looked behind him he would have observed how none of the Guardian's shields dropped. He didn't trust this man with his shadowed eyes, no matter what Jack could have said in his defence.

"Father?" He said, encouraged when Loki did not back away, reaching out the closer he came. Loki tilted his head, and, when Jack was only three paces away, finally smiled.

"Jackson." He said lightly, voice tired and croaky. "I didn't mean to startle you. I saw you arrive. Through some form of... of portal?"

Jack nodded, and Loki's eyes brightened, intrigued. "Jack, you have access to such powerful magic."

"It's a snowglobe." Jack replied. "It's not mine."

"You stole it?"

"Yeah, I know, I've already been told off for that. I should know better, I get it." He said, trying to inject some humour into the situation. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he was suddenly more wary of Loki than he had been only seconds before; the shock wearing off just in time for Jack to notice something off about his father. Like his bedraggled clothes, the worn-out face, and the insincere and cracked expression.

But he wanted to keep on track, and felt that the safe point of conversation was also the most important one.

"It's good you're here. Fenrir needs help. You've gotta go to him. Why haven't you?"

Loki's eyes narrowed, gaze sharpening, mind suddenly seeming to connect where before he had been distant. "Fenrir? You know where he is?"

"He's right here. How can you not know if you're here too? Why are you here if not for him?"

"Someone brought me to this place. They said there was something I might want to see." Loki said, obviously no longer paying any real attention as his mind whirred over this new piece of knowledge. Jack tried not to let it show on his face, but this most certainly wasn't what he'd had in mind when he pictured their reunion. He, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it, expected surprise, shock, and they'd gone through that - at least on Jack's part. But he'd also expected elation, a grin, an embrace. He most certainly _hadn't_ wanted a crooked falsity of a smile, or these dead eyes.

And, yes, it _was_ jealousy stirring up inside him. Jack was jealous that the only real emotion Loki had shown thus far in their conversation had been to do with Fenrir.

"Where is he?" Loki asked, and, no matter how Jack wanted to be furious, to scream or to cry, he couldn't bring himself to. He wouldn't let this cold, detached creature see him break down. But he could also not keep Loki from his son.

"There's an island in the lake." He admitted with difficulty, swallowing down his anger that wanted to let loose and have him yell.

_I'm right here! Can you not see me?_ It was like being invisible all over again. He had almost forgotten how that felt.

"How do you get there?"

"I used a snowglobe-" Jack quickly realised this was the wrong thing to say as Loki was suddenly in his face, swifter than anyone without magic should be able to move, with his large hand wrapped around Jack's throat. Jack tried to defend himself with his staff, but Loki used his other hand to pull it from him and toss it aside carelessly. Sandy then tried to help, but, to a warrior like Loki, Sandy without magic was of no threat to him.

Loki extracted the last snowglobe with a coo. Jack was clawing his fingers against the back of Loki's hands, trying to inflict pain with his blunted nails to no effect. Loki's patient look, falsely caring and sickening in its artificiality, suddenly shifted to a frown, and his eyes flickered down to Jack's leg.

"Well, isn't that a spot of luck." He smiled again, snide and malicious, before leaning in close to whisper to him lowly. "Do forgive me, Jack."

Jack's breath caught when he felt a hand plunge into his stomach, and searing agony ripped up his leg and out through his wound. He screamed, clinging on to Loki's arms and trying to keep his eyes open, staring up into the pale, broken face which returned with a dispassionate expression. Maybe it didn't last as long as it felt it did, but by the time Loki withdrew his hand, sticky with his icy blood, Jack felt like he had aged more in one instant than he had in the last three hundred years. Loki dropped him afterwards, but not before Jack had time to lash out in retaliation, not all sense lost, and snatch the snowglobe back from his grasp.

"Earth!" He yelled at it, rendering it useless to Loki and trying to clamber up to make a break for it. He looked to Sandy, who was distressed at his injuring and being unable to help, instructing the golden man, "Go! Get back home! I'm right behind you!"

And he had been. Even with an oozing wound, even weak with blood loss and lightheaded with shock, Jack had been only a few steps behind him. Sandy even looked back to ensure it before he jumped through to the other side. And Jack very almost made it, too.

But he didn't. Loki jerked him back by the hood of his top as the portal closed in front of him. The strange and alien face of Jack's father was besides itself with fury, snarling down at Jack in a way more terrifying than Fenrir could ever conceive of.

Around him, bright magic swirled. It was poison green and ominous, sinking in to Loki's skin at every available point, making his eyes glow that same deadly shade.

"You had my magic within you, Jack. I couldn't let you leave without at least thanking you." He produced one wrist to show his son, and Jack saw for the first time in person the shackles which kept Loki's magic trapped securely within him. Now, obviously, with an external amount stolen from Jack, Loki cracked the shackles open in front of his very eyes.

" _Thank you_ , Jack." He said, dark amusement in his voice, and this time when he pushed Jack away from him, Jack fell. This time, Jack didn't fight the darkness when it snuck up to steal him away.

\--

It had taken Loki much too long to recover from snapping the bindings from his magic. Almost as soon as it had happened he had to force himself away - somewhere safe so he could allow the magic to do as it saw fit after so long held within him. It had been something spectacular, to say the least, and unspeakably painful. He had to take a day to recover from 'recovering'.

This was the reason why it had taken him so long to get to the island they had hidden Fenrir from him on - the island he had never known existed, and would never have had it not been for... for...

Well, he was here now. It had taken him too many years, but he was here. Once this location had been pointed out to him it became only obvious where before he had been kept blind from discovering it, and he was able to transport himself onto the island and flit around until he discovered his son, or a hint that could divulge the precise location of his son. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any.

He eventually managed to pursue the distinct and out-of-place smell of smoke from a fire - something which shouldn't be in such an untouched habitat. He followed it behind rocky twists and turns until he found the smouldering remains of a flame struggling to light a small cave. A mere flick of his wrist had it burning bright again, even with no fuel to keep it alive, and the small enclosure was illuminated to revealed a bleeding body and some abandoned chains.

Loki checked the life signs of what seemed to be a warrior of Asgard, bright haired and bearded, before noticing a stray dark splatter of dark blood which led out of the cave. Putting his fingers to it, he realised it was dry.

He was too late. He had arrived too late. Of all the times, it was now that escape had become obvious? How? Why _now_?

And Loki pounded the wall, screaming out in frustration, crumbling the rock under his fist. He was _too late._ Fenrir was gone and he was once again back at square one. Fenrir was gone and Loki had no idea where he was. Everything had been for _nothing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope what Loki did with the magic was clear to everyone.  
> Oh, and the thing about keeping the island hidden from Loki was pretty much like the secret keeping of James and Lily. It's cool so long as no one tells Voldemort where to find them.


	10. Lend A Mending Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longer than I intended it to be. Sorry.

It started with a burning down his side, coiling down through his chest and out to the claws at the end of each limb. It grew steadily, uncomfortably, but not painfully, not enough to make him cry out - just enough for him to grow concerned.

Fenrir recognised the feeling - it was very akin to magic. To shapeshifting. Though he was rusty at the latter, having not bothered to try it since he was a boy, there was a thrill to it, a certain sensation that was unique and unforgettable, and Fenrir could recall it well enough.

At the same time, there was also something icy to it. Magic was never cold, that much the wolf knew from his parents' teachings. It could _cause_ cold, it could _fight_ cold, but it could never _be_ cold. It was a comfort and a danger, alive and thriving, like fire, and it was Loki, his father, who made sure he always remembered that. That he remembered how easily the misuse of it could go wrong.

This, whatever was crawling through him, slithering like snakes across his body, was therefore not magic, but was something else. Fenrir looked over his shoulder, trying to see where the not-magic was originating from, but there wasn't so much as even a bright light to give him a hint.

He growled deep in his throat, a defence mechanism more than a deliberate action; something he used to ground himself, keep himself calm. Now, with an unseen force shimmying down though him, he was not allowed to panic. There was only so much he could do, after all, bound in these chains as he was. The chains which restricted not only his body, but his magic, including his innate shapeshifting abilities. The dwarves were true geniuses to come up with such an object, but Fenrir had never been in any mood to applaud them on their ultimate success.

And why would he? Not only had his rights to freedom been revoked because of them and their craftsmanship, but it was also the case of why he _remained_ here, defenceless. If anyone, anyone at all, came here with harmful intents in mind, what was Fenrir to do to stop them?

He would not withstand an attack from an unknown enemy; someone who had heard tales of the beast and wished to gain fame from slaying it where it stood. Or maybe death from Týr, finally grown bored with his responsibilities, or having his thoughts of vengeance for his lost hand finally consume him. Or, even, from the little white spirit, who called himself a Lokison. Fenrir did not know a lot about the boy who was named Jack, and he did not read ill-intents from him, but that rarely meant anything. Tables could turn faster than blinking. Fenrir knew that better than most.

There was only so much any one person could do, and only so much that same person could take. Jack was not able to free him as much as he knew Týr would one day give up on his good-willed façade.

Týr, one of the mightier gods, had been the one to raise him, Fenrir supposed. He had not been thrown to Midgard like Jörmungandr, or tossed to the underworld as Hel was. He theorised he should have felt lucky for that. Eventually, he had, getting lost in the glow of Asgard and occasionally forgetting the family left behind, but even those days had come to an end.

He grew, as all children did, and did become more rowdy, stronger, perhaps even scary. It was the culture, of course, but not one that they'd appreciated him adopting. Not with his size, and certainly not with his teeth. They decided they could not keep him. They treated him as if he were a pet; something that could be restrained when it grew to be too dangerous, or even put down if it became rabid. He knew that was all this confinement was, he was hardly stupid. This was merely a legality - they couldn't outright kill him on account of the fact he was a Lokison. Therefore they imprisoned him. Kept him close-by on a leash so that when they found a reason to execute him - and they would find one eventually - he was on hand; there and waiting for the slaughter.

Fenrir had once fought against that. He had too many wounds which had never had time to truly heal which proved he hadn't completely given up.

On the other hand, he knew of the futility of his situation. He knew there was no escaping, no way out, no rescue. If his father was going to find him, he would have. If Hel and Jörmungandr were in any position to do the same, they would have too. He knew they would. He had to believe that.

Perhaps this non-magic attacking him now was of Æsir make. They had been known to come up with stranger things than invisible, cold seiðr.

Týr denied any knowledge of plots or conspiracies of all kinds when he came to the island to check up on Fenrir. He would sit with him through several days, chatting amiably and insisting Fenrir was here for his own protection. The wolf had to think bigger than himself, he had to think further of himself. There were _prophecies_...

Fenrir did not know what that meant. He knew what prophecies were, of course, but he didn't understand why potential futures could have forced Odin's hand and pushed Fenrir away from the golden lands. He knew there had been other fortunes - ones which had forced the wolf and his family apart - but they were different. What had come through which had encouraged Odin to rethink his position on Fenrir? What had he done to be punished so cruelly? To be trapped until death in this black cave, lonely and in searing agony. Fenrir felt he had been owed at least hand for it. He was owed a great deal more. If he ever got out, so help him, he would find it.

However, that was fruitless thinking. There was no way out, there never had been, and it had been Fenrir's own foolishness and pride which had bound him in these chains. He had no doubt that, had he said _no_ to the challenge, they would not have let him free, but he shouldn't have fallen for their tricks. He shouldn't have tried to prove his worth to the men who had kept him and his father apart.

Týr was the worst of them. Not as a person, perhaps, but as a betrayer. He should have been there supporting him, if not for Fenrir then for Loki. They had known each other their lives through, yet it was he who approached Fenrir and offered him the challenge. _All you have to do is break this chain._ After the two come before it, it was nothing. Hardly a ribbon, not a challenge at all. He could smell the deceit as clear as day, he had a talent for it, but he had been blinded by his amusement. To think that he, Fenrir, could not tear such a fragile piece of metalwork in two? It was preposterous.

Had hadn't anticipated the cleverness of the dwarves. He hadn't anticipated how easily they could bind him.

In the end, he at least had a part of the mighty warrior god as recompense. But, as Fenrir would always inform Týr when he came in to sit with him, it was not enough to satisfy him. The god would only nod, sigh, and state Fenrir never changed. How could he? He was stuck in limbo, here at this ridiculous place where the gods deemed holy enough not to spill his blood. Where there was no natural magic, where there was nothing but Fenrir and the screeching birds, and the occasional hateful god who thought it was a kindness to keep him company.

Perhaps the worst part was that the Áss never stopped apologising. He was not entirely sincere in his regrets, but he never ceased to speak of them.

"Your father went into disarray when he came home to find you gone," He told Fenrir only days after he had first been incarcerated, and the wolf had almost not heard him over his own furious howling. "He's looking for you. He's still looking for all of you."

"I'm sorry I had to do this," This was at a different time, at the same place, in reference to the sword lodged firmly between his jaws. "You would have killed us all, even bound and struggling." It had caused Fenrir to kick off again, making his bonds only ever tighter. Týr had gazed upon him gently, and chided him as if he were a child. "You know that only makes things worse."

Fenrir did know. Every struggle made the band tighter around his wrists, and every shout, every growl, sunk the sword in deeper. But he had nothing else to lose. This was the only thing he could do, the only way to show he was still fighting for his freedom, even if it meant restricting it further.

Fenrir tried this now for loss of what other options open to him, simply squirming as the non-magic worked its way through his body and up towards his head. He shook his nose from side to side, trying to free himself of whatever was invading inside of him, to no avail. When it reached the back of his eyes the burning only grew, the pressure built up to unbearable, and Fenrir saw white as he screamed, long and loud and startling to his own ears, the sound twisting to foreign and weak as the pain wore on and his ears started to ring and he felt his body slumping to the ground.

The world around him seemed colder, but the pain wore on. He tried to lash out, but his limbs were heavy from the exertion of straining himself against the chain; he could not bring himself to lift even a single paw - he was too tired, too strained, and he was still whimpering from the agony.

The non-magic was shifting from his legs, disappearing completely in areas, though he didn't notice this over how it pounded through his head. Eventually, evenly, slowly, relief washed over his pelvis and up through his chest, before steadily chasing away the dense cloud of the non-magic from his mind. Afterwards there was nothing left to prove there had ever been so much of a tingle of whatever it was which had attacked him, barring the physical strain trying to resist it had caused on his malnourished body. What remained was him, the chains only a distant and minimal weight around his ankles, and the wounds on his face. It hurt. It always hurt. Nothing ever seemed to diminish it, to block it from his mind. His existence was constant suffering and anguish, and he kept his eyes closed as the world came back to him, listening to his own pants and pretending, for a moment, he was not where he was. In his head he could be anywhere on the universe, it truly did not matter, so long as it wasn't here.

He could be on Asgard, pouncing around in the sun, or lost in the trees of Midgard, stalking his dinner. It didn't matter. It didn't matter. If it wasn't the cave, it was better. It was where he wanted to be.

Perhaps this had been something to do with Jack, the sprite who had visited only the day before. They had never returned back to him when they left - the miniscule man made out of sand had said they would, but Fenrir hadn't expected anything and therefore hadn't been disappointed.

It had been nice, in a way, to meet someone new. It was even more intriguing to discover someone else who could talk to him and understand his own return words despite the sword lodged in his mouth. Previously, only Týr could manage such a feat, and even that was solely due to the fact he'd known him for so many years. This Sandman, it seemed, was a creature more like Fenrir, who had to get used to other people trying to interpret him. When it had come to talking with the wolf, therefore, it was a very simple to translate. Likewise, Fenrir could follow his crafty little symbols - the pictures which appeared above his head with a mere thought - with ease. Those who shared a mutual grievance could find an ally in one another.

Almost.

Now it seemed they were the likely candidates in this new twist of events, and that unholy magic which was not magic at all, it couldn't be, it hadn't felt like real magic, yet it had to be. Nothing else could get into Fenrir's head like that, nothing else could crawl through his body with such evil intent and then leave so abruptly. Someone, likely the two who had come and then promptly vanished only a few hours before, had cast a curse of some sort upon him, and he was going to find out what. As soon as he felt strong enough to move, anyway.

He was beginning to feel light-headed, he then noticed in a vague sort of manner, and he blinked open his eyes to see a puddle of blood forming before him. Survival instincts kicked in and he pushed himself up, only to discover his legs weren't responding properly. In fact, his entire body wasn't reacting as it should. He took a glance down his prone figure, expecting one thing and being greeted by another, and he decided that if the presence of the non-magic was the time to be calm, _now_ was the time to panic.

He lay bare, bereft of fur completely, soft-skinned and pale and shaking, his now pink form spottily covered in blood. It took a second to recognise where it was coming from, as he moved his hands - _hands,_ ofall things. He hadn't had hands for _centuries_ \- up to his face, where he gingerly put his fingers into his mercifully empty mouth, just to hiss and wince away when he felt the large gash running from the inside of it to the front of his lip, which had almost split his cheek in half. The blood from the wound wasn't stopping and Fenrir wasn't feeling particularly rational.  

He was in his natural form. He was the same shape as a human, or a Vanr or an _Áss_. He still had his dark hair - the same shade as his fur had been, a black which had echoed his father's - and his nails were long enough to be claw-like, but he didn't like it. He felt vulnerable, weak. This was unsurprising, considering, no matter how strong he was, no matter how tall or overbearing knew his true form to be , he was not how he should be. He had grown used to his wolfish exterior, come to feel more comfortable in it than this skin; had used it as a defence his whole life through. As soon as he'd been capable of transforming into a wolf, he had done. Often, continuously, much to his parents' displeasure. Jörmungandr had hated it because, at the time, he had been too young to copy Fenrir's success. His own magic abilities were limited to less complicated animals, like... like a snake.

At least, Fenrir had time to think, the sword had been dislodged when he'd changed. Had it continued where it was, he likely wouldn't have even had time to realise he was back to his natural form, never mind panic over it.

Further, he was lucky he wasn't human, else he would have probably passed out from blood loss by now.

Fenrir glanced down, casting his eyes over his own skinny legs, before he noticed the chains that were still wrapped around him. Wrapped, he realised, in the loosest sense of the word. They had clearly not altered with him - they had been tied specifically for the wolf's measurements and only responded by getting tighter against force. They hadn't been designed with the idea that Fenrir could shrink, because, technically, he shouldn't have been able to. No magic, no matter who it was from, could alter those chains. Therefore, the only logical outcome was something else entirely. Something Fenrir wasn't happy to think about.

He opened his palm, stared at it hard, and willed a shine into existence. Nothing. He tried again, digging deeper into himself simply to strike a basic light, but there was no result. It made him impossibly angry since he had mastered this trick before he had been five years old, but he knew he shouldn't get frustrated by it. It wasn't that he was out of practise or he had forgotten. It was that there was no way of striking a light, since there was no magic for him to use as fuel.

There was two different forms of seiðr in the universe: one was known as natural magic, and was essentially a free-for-all, in that if it was in the surroundings and someone had the talent to manipulate it, they could use it. It was rare to do so, however, since it was weak magic, dampened by age and the weather and the environment; practically useless to an experienced mage trying to utilise it for any real form of enchantment. However, for a person with skills but no true seiðr of their own, it had been a blessing in their lives.

This island was bereft of that kind - one of the few places in the universe where magic simply did not abound, drifting in the air waiting to be formed into something new, exciting and spellbinding. It was why this island was a sacred place to the Æsir and the Vanir, who didn't like to come here due to it. They were scared of what would happen should they approach somewhere so strange and detached from the rest of reality. This was why Odin thought it safe to place Fenrir deep within such a land, as where no stranger could stumble over him where there were no strangers to be found. He had been correct in that regard.

Then there was the second form of magic - innate, inner seiðr which was bottled up inside a sorcerer and could only truly be wielded by themselves. Another, should they have a close connection with a fellow mage, could transform and control someone else's magic had they access to any, but it was rare. Fenrir, for example, had a protection curse cast upon him by his mother when he was a child. It didn't do much - it was an old spell, and more of a warning bell to Angrboða if he got in any trouble than actual protection - so, if he wished, he could utilise it to his own means. It was not a lot and it wouldn't come back if wasted, so he used only a slither of it to keep his head clear, and kept the rest where it was. He never knew when it was going to be useful.

He had his own magic, of course. Or, he had done. It had been kept inside him for centuries, locked under his skin by Gleipnir, and it should have burst from him as soon as the chain slackened. It would have been equally as painful as whatever the non-magic had done to his head, but afterwards, when it had calmed and given Fenrir time to catch his breath, it would have been a relief.

But it hadn't. _Nothing_ had happened. And that was because it wasn't there anymore.

Whatever the non-magic had been, it had affected his seiðr. Its permanence was not something he was willing to linger on, in case his brain became all fuzzy with alarm again, but whatever had happened had cut him off from his magic, which meant, even though he was technically free, there was no way of getting out. They'd find him - someone had no doubt heard his screams - and they'd discover he was now only a person like them. What they'd do after was not a mystery. Seeing him unburdened of his restraints, seemingly in control of his magic (since he had changed his shape), they would waste no time in cutting him down.

Perhaps that had been the plan all along. Steal from him everything he had, then act as if they had murdered him in self-defence. He had to admit it was well played.

Therefore, there was no point in staying here waiting for them to cut him down.

Gingerly, terrified that one wrong move could encourage the chains to trap him once again, Fenrir tried to gain control of his alien limbs and use his new-found fingers to pick one part of the chain from his left ankle and extract his foot from where it rested underneath. When nothing immediately happened, no lashing out in protest as Gleipnir's purpose was undermined, the once-wolf gently repeated the action with his other leg. Following, he worked on untwisting his wrist from their tangles. Beneath the chains, his flesh oozed red. This wasn't new to him, he was too used to it to so much as blink, but it looked fairly gory without the black fur to hide the wounds behind. He grimaced, faintly disgusted by the sight, but was thankful his sense of smell was weaker. Though he'd grown used to the iron tang, he'd quickly come to abhor it.

He then tried to step away, stumbling when his strange feet caught under him, dropping to all fours on instinct, and stepped back from the limp chains. They didn't respond to the growing distance, and why would they? They were nothing more than inanimate pieces of metal. Fenrir had no reason to fear them. That didn't stop him from being careful, however.

He slowly regained himself, managing to stand on two feet and keep himself upright after only a few short moments forcing himself to relearn. His hands simply weren't made for the ground, and he'd cut them to shreds should he attempt to navigate the rocks on four limbs.

He stopped before he reached the entrance, glaring into the sun, watching as he wiggled his tones over the line where the shadows ended. It felt warmer in the daylight, and he was entirely too cold without his usual dense coat of fur, but he wasn't about to jump out into the world. He didn't know what was waiting out there for him. This was a trap of some kind, he could feel it.

However, he didn't want to wait here, either. Better he go outside and greet his foes, once more free and standing tall, than be cornered in that damned cave, where he'd been slowly, brutally tortured throughout most of his adult life.

He wanted to leave that all behind.

Perhaps he should have picked up that sword.

He glanced back, making up his mind and quickly retrieving it, dripping blood all the way since he'd yet to cease bleeding, before breathing deep, closing his eyes and taking the first step out towards his own liberation.

\--

Leiptr had been the warrior sent by Odin to go keep an eye on the Island Lyngvi. It had been an abrupt summons, hasty orders passed down to him through the head of the guards before Odin locked himself away in a meeting. But Leiptr didn't question his instructions since it wasn't his place, and was quick to get atop his horse and find his way through the Bifrost.

The Island was on Vanaheim, far east of where the capital stood grand and proud on the rich realm. It was pointedly out of reach from any trespassers by the Amsvartnir ocean. Leiptr would only be capable of crossing with a boat - one hidden away by magic between the trees for such an occasion as the visiting of the great wolf.

Leiptr had been chosen for this task on account of the fact he had done it before. He had previously accompanied Týr to ensure his safety whilst he conversed with the great monster, so he knew where to go and how to find the correct path.

In such an environment - empty of natural seiðr for miles around, yawning with the stifling air such an absence produced - it was lucky he did know his way. Any single person was weaker here, whilst everything else was stranger. It jumbled heads, made people believe things they hadn't before. It produced believers out of gods.

Leiptr was more sensible than that. Whilst he wouldn't deliberately spill blood on sacred ground, that didn't mean he had faith as some others did. As Týr did. Instead, he had respect for their ideals, observed their practises, but didn't pretend to be part of them.

And then there was Fenrir, who would sometimes deliberately bite himself to watch the blood fall where it shouldn't be. He laughed at them, he hated them, and Leiptr found the creature disgusting for it.

It was nothing more than a mindless beast, allowed to remain breathing out of kindness for his father, who, as everyone on Asgard and Midgard knew, had likewise taken a turn for the worst in recent years. Every day saw Loki degrade futher, taking more after his monstrous children than his noble parents.

And then he'd mindlessly slaughtered men who were merely in the way - good, honest men who had done him no harm. Men he had known, men Leiptr knew, and their losses would not be easily forgiven. Loki would be forced to pay for what he had done, more so than simple imprisonment, and perhaps that was right. He had already gotten away with too much meaningless slaughter.

His child was much the same. Fenrir would have killed them all one-hundred times over if it hadn't been for that chain keeping him contained, and he would have done it without regret. Leiptr was aware that, had _he_ been in that position, he would have no doubt quickly become homicidal, but that didn't change anything. The prophecies foretold that wolf would bring around the end of everything, the death of Odin himself, and he had to be kept locked up.

They had initially thought to raise him better - away from the influences of his strange, unusual family. Far, far away from his evil mother, gone from his grotesque siblings, split from his lying, deceptive father. Put in the hands of someone capable, strong and worthy. Týr, who'd been a loyal subject to the crown and friend to the princes. Týr, who could teach right from wrong and put love in a heartless beast.

But it hadn't worked. There was only so much a man could do to change a mere animal. It was no fault of Týr's, no fault of Odin's, no fault of even Loki's. It was just the way Fenrir was. He was born with a savage side which had started to express itself in hunts and the play fights could quickly turned too violent. Not even Fenrir could be blamed for that.

But they could not simply leave him be, faultless or not. When Loki had been away (because, had he caught wind of their plan he would not have taken it gracefully, nor seen the necessity in it), they had tricked Fenrir into compliance. Fenrir had known of their dishonesty, had taken his precautions in the form of Týr's hand in his mouth, but it hadn't been enough to stop them.

And now it was Leiptr's job to check up on him.

They would have sent Fenrir's guardian, obviously, who could converse with the wolf and try to make him see sense, but he was otherwise engaged with the mess Loki had made, along with that spirit from Midgard, Jack Frost. As one of the mightiest and noblest of them all, he had rightfully been put in charge of damage control.

Which left Leiptr with the dirty work.

Not that he minded. He had no intention of staying long hours with Fenrir and gaily conversing. He would rather twist his own neck than sit down in the presence of the beast, but he was required to at least check up on him. All that meant was building a fire, ensuring he was still breathing, and walking away. Exiting the same way he had come. Re-hiding the boat and going home to help with Asgard's problems. That was all it took. He wasn't going to be longer than an hour, even if he took his time.

Leiptr decided against a more leisurely pace, however, when he heard screaming from across the lake. It was most certainly Fenrir - that howl was unmistakable - but it was not the usual screams. This was not anger or frustration, this was the same noise which sometimes came back to Leiptr in dark, silent moments. The anguished cry made when the sword had first been plunged between the wolf's gums. This was authentic agony, and as much as Leiptr would like to say Fenrir deserved it, he couldn't bring himself to. _Nothing_ in the nine realms should suffer through such torment.

There was likely nothing he would be able to do to solve it, he reasoned as he rowed. If this was about the sword then it wasn't being removed. If it was something else, he didn't know whether Fenrir would trust him to communicate his distress with him. Or, on that point, whether he'd even understand. Nevertheless, it was his duty as not just a warrior of Asgard but also a good-hearted Áss to help those in need, as much as he was capable. Even monsters.

This was likely why he'd been sent down. Odin would have known something was wrong with Fenrir, which explained the sudden and unexpected askance to make the trip.

He arrived at the dock in good time, tying the boat up securely and stepping down onto the rocky shore, eyes sharp for the entrance to the hidden cave. Even after all the times he'd travelled here, Leiptr couldn't always immediately identify its location. However, it only took five minutes or less to accurately recall, and he slipped in through the narrow passage (but only barely, with all his armour), and into the darkened cave. He knelt down, extracting a flint and steel set, before replacing the tinder nest and setting light to the cur. Then he glanced up. Then he stood up. Then he took a terrified step forward, hand on the hilt of his sword as he cast his eyes to the chains on the floor and the blood trail dripping away from them. Fenrir was absent from where he should be, therefore unbound and free. Had he escaped the island or was he... oh, Auðumbla, he had no way off the island. He was still here.

He heard footsteps behind him, rapid and approaching fast, but Leiptr didn't get time to spin around, since long fingers clenched his head from behind and took but a second to _jerk_.

\--

The body fell to the ground face down, though the angle of the warrior's neck was now grotesque enough that his head was facing in entirely the wrong direction. Fenrir stared down at him remorselessly, before suddenly dropping to his haunches to sniff the carcass.

Oh. Fenrir knew this man. Even though his sense of smell was significantly lesser than what he was used to, some scents were still easy to recognise. This man, an Áss trained personally by Fenrir's beloved keeper, was often with Týr upon visitations. As far as Fenrir could recall, the blond warrior hadn't though much of him. That was fair, he reasoned, since the once-wolf had not been fond of him either.

If anything, the knowledge of who this man was made Fenrir regret his murder even less.

It perhaps wasn't wise to spend his first day back in his real form going around killing people, but it was better to be safe than sorry. If he'd given the warrior chance to come to blows with him, Fenrir may have been seriously injured. He didn't have seiðr to spare for that.

Perhaps this man, nameless in Fenrir's mind, did not deserve death, but Fenrir didn't either. Fate always picked its favourites, and today luck was smiling, for once, on the son of Loki. It was about time.

He had seen the man arrive on a boat, watched him from behind shadows and stalked him as a wolf would its prey. Then he had lashed out, defensively as far as Fenrir was concerned, if, admittedly, a little pre-emptive. However the man had reached for his sword, and that was enough to tell Fenrir he wasn't here in peace.

As Fenrir sailed from the island for the first time in a thousand years, feeling glorious and delighted at his new found ability to _leave_ , he started to revise his theories. Asgard was involved in the stripping of his magic, he was sure. The timing of their guard showing up seemed a little too perfect. And what about Jack Frost and the man made out of sand? Likely they were involved too, but in what particular capacity, Fenrir wasn't certain.

He shook his head sharply, aware he wasn't thinking entirely clearly, and clambered up onto land when he reached the other side of the lake.

He glanced back to the island, which was hardly even noticeable to the untrained eye and certainly invisible to those who did not know it was even there, and Fenrir had never wished to set fire to any place more. But the air around him was too still, too stilted with the absence of seiðr, that Fenrir knew better than to test fate. This area was too terrifying to disturb; he wished to escape it sooner rather than later. He'd been stuck here far too long. Much longer than any being would wish to be here. Longer, perhaps, than any other being had ever remained.

He had left that damned sword in the rocks where he had hidden upon the warrior's arrival. He'd found it a clumsy weapon - too heavy, too long. He much preferred the strength of his own hands - greater, even as flimsy as he was in his human form, than many of even the Æsir. His proclamations of might hadn't all been mere arrogance, after all.

He had decided to rely solely on himself and his hands - he had never truly leant to fight with any other weapon, having been raised in Asgard as the wolf.

Even when he had been living on Midgard with his father, Loki had only taught Fenrir the basics. He had been too young to go beyond that, and nor was Loki a master swordsman. The prince of Asgard was better for long distance fighting, or occasionally, if he was forced to, attacks that were from an enemy so close there was no form of defence against them. Loki specialised in magic and knives, which could be used as efficiently from fifty paces as from five centimetres.

But Fenrir had been but an excited boy when his family were together, eager to be a warrior with their hefty weapons; wanted to wield an axe, or swing a flail, or thrust a sword through someone's chest.

That had never come to be. Instead, the second Lokison found himself caught up in the disguise of a wolf; had discovered a proficiency for tearing people in two. It was much easier than having to carry around a weapon all the time.

With this in mind and the surety of his own strength a given, Fenrir traversed the lands fearless and free, attempting to find somewhere to rest. Now out of the form he was well-known by, that of the monstrous wolf, he wondered whether he would be able to even mingle amongst the people living on this realm. There were less warriors here on Vanaheim than on Asgard. Perhaps they needed one more. Anything, to keep him away from the eyes of Odin and Heimdall.

He was thankful for these lands which were barren of magic, if only because they were their own form of protection from any all-seeing mages. The ability to see everything only occurred by luck of the fact natural magic was almost everywhere. The all-seers could utilise the magic in the airs and use it to reflect an image back to them, like a wave - a ripple through space. But here, in these rare dead-spots, there was no possibility of their gaze cutting through.

Fenrir didn't stop travelling until he found a road, just away from the borders of the magicless void. It was like a breath of air when Fenrir hadn't realised he'd been drowning, and he shook his head to clear the euphoric haze of being connected once more to the universe.

Some beings didn't realise it, such as the humans, but through natural magic they were all connected. Fenrir had been absent too long to miss it, to yearn for the worlds as they tumbled around and shifted the natural seiðr and sully up whatever order there once was within it. But returning suddenly after so long made him feel elated, dizzy with the pleasure of it.

He wanted to sit down. He was a sturdy man who could endure more than many could ever conceive of, but even he had his limits, especially now - as barren of magic as the lands he had stumbled out of. The wound across his face wasn't slowing in its steady drip, and Fenrir knew he could only go on for so much longer before he collapsed. The sudden rush of everything, the seiðr in the air, the transformation, the realisation he was free, the horror at his magic being stolen from him, the killing of that man... Well, he felt there was only so much excitement to be had in one day. He was ready to give up; to sleep in the road and hope no one ran him over.

He trudged on, however, stretching his muscles thin as he following the worn path, suddenly aware now that he had been reunited with the world how he was filthy and beaten and naked. He didn't have shame - at this point he hadn't the energy to summon up emotions more complicated than the bare basics of happy, sad and scared - but he knew he was going to startle people if he suddenly came among them in such a state. He had to find an excuse - something that would make them forgive the fact he was bleeding, covered from head to toe in grime, and clean of clothing.

Perhaps he could say he was attacked. That he had only just managed to get away. He could put emphasis on how close he had come to dying. In a way, he wasn't even lying.

Then he realised something awful - had his all-speak been stolen along with his magic? He had learnt the basic dialects of Vanaheim - Loki had taught all his children the actual languages rather than encourage them to rely on their abilities, and Týr had insisted he keep up with his studies until he had fully grown - but he didn't know whether, with the passage of time weathering his thoughts, he'd be able to fully recall more than the basic phrases, if even that.

He tried to think it over as he walked, noticing signs which suggested he was approaching a town, but his head was buzzing, protesting the fact he was still awake when he was so severely injured, his body was drooping from the strain it had been through, and nothing beyond pure survival instinct was keeping Fenrir on his feet. He knew he had to get as far away from that cave as possible. He had escaped, and now he needed somewhere to hide.

And this town might be a good starting point.

As he drew nearer, he began to see people in the distance, bustling around the place, working, talking, living. The closer he came, the more his legs betrayed him, so he tried to call out and get their attention before he buckled under his own weight.

"Help!" He started to say, but the noise was nothing more than a cough, a sound that did not carry. His voice was raspy with disuse, _mis_ use, and the change from one sort of throat to another had not worked in his favour. After so long of murmurs, of growls, of slurs instead of genuine speech, Fenrir was half-convinced he wouldn't succeed in making a single true word. "Hey! Help!"

He waved an arm, realising people were finally starting to look up. The closest Vanir to him - a small group of women working the land just outside of the town boundaries, turned their attention to him.

"Help me." He begged, and the townsfolk who were already mercifully running towards him, surrounded him quickly. They wrapped his bare body up tightly in shawls and lead him back towards their village. "Please, _please_ help me."

"Shh, don't speak." One woman said, eying his dripping wound with terrified eyed. "You'll hurt yourself further. We'll get you better, just you wait and see."

And he huddled himself beneath the blankets, shivering and thankful that he was mere moments away from at least a brief reprieve of the torment he'd undergone, ignoring the way the town halted to stare. He was simply grateful they had not left him to die on the roadside, but then the Vanir had always been kinder than those of Asgard. Perhaps Fenrir could repay their sweet hearts with actions of kind one day. Perhaps, if they did that, they might even allow him true refuge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you hated that. Try not to abandon me! Jack and Loki will be showing up again soon, I promise.


	11. Making Spirits Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELEVEN CHAPTERS. I've never gotten to eleven chapters in anything in my whole life. We're over 50,000 words. This is amazing. I am so darn proud, and I'm glad you all like it so much.  
> Sorry this turned into a monster of a fic. I don't even know how. I didn't even have a PLAN when I started this, and now look at it.  
> Side note: I, apparently, really like forests.

Irrelevant of season, the rime was always dusted across the northern-most boarders. The winter sprites had nested there thousands of years ago, long before any human could remember, and it was there where they slept and healed and defended when the other sprites attacked.

Here, they were invisible. The fairies who stood guard were the oldest, the hardest and the biggest. The young soldiers of other types that were sent from the south were no challenge for them to dispatch when they'd faced more hardened warriors in the depth of the winter battles.

Upon their home ground, hallowed by icy prayers and protected by frozen winds, they were untouchable.

They were also silent. The sprites communicated in a whispered language of secrets and gestures and codes, because they could never be sure who or what would overhear them. So many years of continuous battle against three separate fronts had each type of season sprite develop a dialect only translatable within their own kind; only understandable to those born to it.

Even the battles, when fully raging as they did at the end of one season and the start of another, were devoid of noise. What was the use of noise to the sprites? When the blizzards swooped in a devastating blow to the autumn enemies even cries of victory and screams of the dying could not be heard over the wailing wind. Spoken language was of no use in those conditions, as they weren't in calmer times where there were spies lurking, waiting to eavesdrop. Better to remain mute.

Better to remain unseen when the other season reigned, and when the summer sprites were rising with the heat of the world, waiting to strike against spring, and wary of any early autumn bloomers.

The winter sprites fought the summer sprites as any did against an alien to their kind, but there was no real hostility in summer and winter, such as autumn had no long-standing grudge with spring other than it being a sprite with a different name and of a different colouring.

But the winter was coming and the forests of the world were buzzing with white sprites. They leapt invisibly from tree to tree, wings only wisps against the air disguised in the breeze, and feet as light as feathers as they landed upon a new branch.

The sprites knew the forests of the north; these lands was theirs and they protected it. They knew the entrances, the correct paths, and the best way to trap intruding fairies. Each made their rounds throughout the hours, taking in their young, bold prisoners or executing them on the spot and leaving the empty shells as a warning to those thinking to try.

Beneath them as they travelled back and forth over the trees, other creatures roamed. Creatures who played no part in the all-consuming battle, such as the beasts and the native animals. Above them flew others, equally irrelevant to the sprites who were consumed in their wars, such as the birds and the spirits, sometimes including Jack Frost who always found them amusing.

The other spirits, such as the Father Winter, slept throughout much of the year, waking only upon the march of the sprites signalling their battle-readiness and subsequent migration to cover the world and attempt once again to wipe out the opposing sprites.

And then there were the beasts, _humans_ , who knew not of the dangers lurking in the depths of the frozen forest. They used to be more aware - wandering inside only out of stupidity, or rumours, or desperation. Now they were almost fearless, settling wherever they saw fit and destroying the forests on their own whims. Ignorant fools.

One beast wondered now, lost and alone and young, but the imps did not care. They overlooked him and his cries for help, flying on to deliver their messages home.

\--

To the west lay a lake, frozen over and silent as graves. It was usually absent of life, even beneath the water, so when activity looked to be stirring in the depth, even the most preoccupied of sprites turned to watch.

Animals peered out from their homes as the imps whispered their messages through the trees, sending word home-bound. Something was writhing under the thick ice, trying to crack it, trying to get out. Something strong, monstrous and dangerous.

Then it fell silent, the thrashing ceasing too suddenly, and the sprites looking to each other whilst the animals stood wary, stepping back. It was only due to the still landscape, their curiosity and nervousness presenting a distinct silence that smothered them all, that a scratching could be heard at all.

It was a weak noise, hardly worth an investigation, but out of place after the desperate struggle which had outlined the previous attack on the ice. It had become less than a monster breaking free and more as if a sparrow scraping away at the frost.

Until that stopped as well, after which all fell silent. But then, a few long moments later, a burst of water blew away the ice, creating a hole at the very edge of the lake. From under the water, a clawing hand appeared. It caught onto the embankment of the lake, ignoring the rain of icy water tumbling down upon it as it lifted itself onto the snow-dusted lands.

The animals shrunk further back into the shadows when they saw the form of the creature:  beast-like, _human_ -like, small and wiry with sharp eyes and ghost-white skin, orange hair dripping. It had a strange twitching disposition. It crawled over the land on its belly, staring upon its limbs like they were something strange and unusual, gasping as it lay there, collapsed naked in the snow.

The cold seemed not to affect it, but its need for air begged the question what it had been doing underneath a frozen lake in the first place. Its surprise upon where it had found itself was equally perplexing to the beings covertly observing, and then its laughter as it looked to the sky.

It stood quickly, much too quickly for a creature so uncoordinated, and wobbled where it stood before catching itself in a crouch. It glared down to its legs, shaking a foot in frustration, before balancing on all fours to slither up towards the trees. From there it glanced to a branch questioningly, considering, before digging its nails, more akin to claws than fingertips, into the bark and hoisting it's weight upwards. From there it traversed through the foliage, looking down upon the ground and up to the blue sky, always cautious of the slightest of sounds; perceptive to even the most swift of movements.

It was therefore only minutes until it caught a sprite and clenched it within its grasp. In stillness sprites became visible, so as soon as the creature had directed itself towards the trees, each winter solider had darted homewards, terrified of being caught. They were quick, but the creature was fast _and_ large, so there was no surprise that it caught up with them. What startled them was how it was capable of sensing them in the first place.

The one trapped within the dangerous hands stuttered into the visual spectrum, squirming within it captor's grip.

"Oh, tiny fairy, how you fight." It spoke, as loud a noise as when humans dared to utter words in this most sacred of places. Like an explosion within the tentative silence. "'Tis a weapon I spy? How curious that one as you would carry such a toy."

The sprite replied with small hisses and extravagant gestures and colourful expressions, which the creature narrowed its eyes at and regarded. Then it replied, no less low but now more understanding, "It saddens me to see the messes you make between then and now. When last I was here, you creatures were not nearly so foul." It threw the sprite to the side after, stunning the creature with its display of  comprehension to the degree that the winter fairy did not immediately run for home and opted, instead, to watch the beast-like being bound from one tree to another. What it was looking for the sprite could not tell, but it was a thought overruled by the duty to report the incident to the clan.

Further into the forest the creature suddenly stopped, putting hands to his fiery hair and spitting out curses in languages which crossed the borders of realms, turning on his heel and returning to the edge of the lake.

He then tried to grasp at the air, not surprised when nothing happened, but certainly frustrated. He then snarled, shaking his hand when this did not help, before collapsing back on the snowy bank and staring up at the sky.

He swirled his hands, both now pointing up towards the clear blue, seemingly endless and beautiful, as his grin once more returned to his face, manic and delighted at his own cleverness, and golden sparks came from the air and gathered in his palms.

He then swallowed the magic whole as if it were no more than a berry from a bush, and dived straight back into the lake.

\--

His name was Jömungandr. That was the only part he kept. He changed everything else too often to keep up with even himself.

His shape, his eye colour, his skin tone, whether he had feet or not - it was all optional, and he revelled in such a freedom. The only restriction that had kept him hostage was the curse which ensured he remained locked in the ocean. But that was no matter - dry land was no place for a sea monster.

As a prison went, the oceans of Midgard were not unsatisfactory. He could swim, explore, eat, and terrify people; nothing he hadn't done when he was free. He didn't have responsibilities, didn't have worries nor cares, and, as far as breaking rules went, he was already being punished for whatever he'd done wrong as a child. They couldn't do anything else to him now if he decided to rebel.

They probably wouldn't even be capable of finding him. His imagination had grown along with his body, which was much too long now. He could twist his form into whatever shape he pleased if he needed to: a terrifying beast from the deep, a sensuous mermaid straight from the pages of fairytales, or even a simple salmon for disguise. They wouldn't find him, therefore, even if they spent the rest of their lives looking.

He had a preference, of course. Jörmungandr had a fondness for the larger creatures, slick and hydrodynamic, cutting through water swifter than the speediest of land mammals. Water was better. Water was where he had grown and matured.

As for places, he rather be in the colder climates than close to the equator. Lakes in Scandinavia were his usual haunts, simply due to the fact that they were closer to home. He liked the memories associated with that part of the world.

It was where he had been, in fact, at the bottom of a lake in Finland, when a cold feeling washed through him, startling him in his long, thin, coiled up body, and causing him to thrash when the pain reached his head. He roared, screaming into the water and throwing his elongated body around with the agonising throes, not feeling the top of the lake and its iced over surface when he hit it with the lower part of his tail; he couldn't feel anything - not over the white noise which had taken hold his brain and blinded his vision.

And then it was over, suddenly and unpredictably, but Jörmungandr didn't have the time to be relieved. Immediately after, as he looked up through the water, he saw himself unintentionally smaller, as if he'd changed his form without meaning to. He realised he couldn't breathe.

He was at the bottom of a frozen lake in Finland and he _couldn't breathe_.

How and why were questions simple enough to answer: His magic had been depleted, forcibly removed from him and leaving him defenceless. However, there was a store of it lingering around his body, courtesy of Angrboða - a useless, so-called 'protection spell' which Jörmungandr had never had the heart to break. It found some new meaning now as he grasped at it desperately, not capable of lingering on the thought that his own seiðr had been completely stolen from him as he used his mother's pocket of loitering magic, old and worn and almost completely worthless, to propel him up to the surface.

When he hit the underside of the frozen ice he tried to break it with his hands, joined by another attempt at reaching for his own innate magic. But there was nothing. No heat came through his palms to melt the ice, no magic spread through him to change him back to something aquatic. Or at least something with a larger lung capacity.

What he wouldn't give to be naturally strong like his brother. Fenrir was burly even when he was young - sprouting up and up, every day closer to their parents' respective heights. Fenrir was probably beyond Loki these days; perhaps closer to a Giant than an Áss. His natural strength would have saved his skin by now, had their positions been swapped.

Jörmungandr finally went back to his mother's pocket of magic, which was running rapidly short, and utilised it as an explosive method of cracking the frost, shooting great chunks of ice and water away from him and leaving a hole in the frozen lake large enough for him to crawl out of.

It was only when he found himself on land, collapsed, panting for breath and amazed to be alive, that he truly observed the form he had found himself in. Without his magic, it seemed, he was back to a very old version of himself, long and slight and human-like. His body was flushed with the cold, bare and shaking, but he could only laugh at his thin limbs which were dusted with freckles, the like of which he hadn't seen in over a thousand years.

The sky above him was very blue, just like the usual sight of his seas. As he lay there, he finally noticed that he no longer felt the trap of his curse keeping him to the waters. He could move, if he liked, about on the land. He had not had so much autonomy since he was a child. As much as he already missed the water, everything about this was an opportunity. He knew the oceans well - a little too well, he occasionally thought - so maybe now was the time to explore. A chance to go home. A chance to start over.

The little winter sprites in the forest, sprinting to and fro, were useful by way of direction. They always travelled north, like good little soldiers, back to their home to fight their wars. His mother had once explained this to him in the most barbaric terms she could envisage, simply so he understood not to interfere, not to interact with their battles. That never stopped Loki, who always found it amusing to mess up their flight patterns with hidden burst of heat, or sudden spring breezes which never failed to scare the little elemental fairies into a fighting frame of mind. They were paranoid little creatures.

It had been his parents who had taught him to see them - always pointing them out until their children were capable of distinguishing a gust from a flutter of a sprite.

That he could understand them was not a gift from his family, however. That was simply a gift by virtue of living too long on this planet. He'd picked up every language eventually, old and new. It was a talent of his.

He had been part-way into the forest, heading west towards his home, when he realised something felt wrong. He ran his fingers through his long, long hair (hair that was usually only ever this length when he was play at being female), to find that something was amiss. Something of vast importance.

 _His beads_.

He turned back, instantly running towards the lake, before realising there was not enough to spare of his mother's protection spell to successfully get him back down to the bottom of the lake and search. Instead he lay down, looked up, and thought of his other options.

Besides holding his breath and hoping for the best, he had too few ideas.

Then he felt the tingle of the air, the nudging of the world as it tried to bring him to his senses, and Jörmungandr realised he was being phenomenally stupid.

He drew his hands up, waving them through the air in order to collect the natural seiðr which flickered around the realm like so much stardust. He drew it together, combining it with the remains of his mother's spell, and produced something useful. He was clever like that. Alone, the magic drifting on the winds was practically useless. But with some more stable magic, it could be used to enhance a spell. He'd learnt that by accident after he'd cut off his hair when he was young and instantly regretted it. Not wanting his mother to see, and not old enough to truly have enough magic to spare for even a simple re-growth, he'd desperately pulled at the seiðr floating about his head.

It hadn't fooled his parents, who congratulated him on his quick thinking, but only after his mother had scolded him for his stupidity.

With this spell he could take his time to find his beads, so he swallowed it down eagerly, not caring that after this he was not going to have any sort of magic to call his own. He'd just have his wits, his freckles and his ridiculous untrimmed nails.

It'd have to do.

He took a breath, dived back into the freezing water and swam for the bottom. Humans, he realised, were disgustingly badly designed. They were certainly not meant to swim. How they managed to figure it out in the first was truly beyond Jörmungandr, who fancied there were too many limbs flailing about. They weren't streamlined enough for effective travel.

They also couldn't see very well. Had his eyesight always been this pathetic when he was in his natural form, or had he simply grown used to seeing through the serpent's heightened visual senses? Really, everything about this form was pathetic.

Except his hair. He was rather fond of human hair. It was somewhere to keep his beads, at least, if only he could find them.

When he reached the bed of the water he started to draw his hand around, trying not to open his mouth to let loose a hiss or a curse or whatever negative emotion planned to escape, since, with it, his precious air would follow.

He wasn't used to needing air. It was a rather startling wake-up call, and the first thing that made him truly realise, _I have no magic._

Now was not the time for revelations, however. He was attempting to find tiny beads in a lake large enough to fit _him_ in, under mud and sand and whatever else had been tossed down here. And from the way he'd been thrashing about, they could be anywhere. He could panic later.

He prepared himself for a long morning.

\--

When he finally emerged from the water, it was celebrated by a great gulp of air and a triumphant yell. He startled a few animals, but otherwise there was no reaction from the forest.

This didn't dishearten the man who had, up 'til recently, been a very large underwater snake who made a habit out of scaring the life out of hapless humans. He simply trudged on, dripping wet and happy, as he set back on his path.

In his hands were eighteen silver and black beads. It had taken him seven hours to find them all.

\--

His first stop had been a cabin, dainty and picturesque in the snowy landscape. Really, all he wanted was some clothes. The cold didn't bother him - the sea was always freezing and he was used to it - but if he was planning to go amongst humans he felt decency might be better welcomed. They would never think to thank him for taking the foresight to ensure he was dressed before he arrived, but he wasn't altruistic for the praise.

He wasn't altruistic at all, in fact. He was planning on some carefully premeditated theft right that instant.

He contemplated for a moment what would happen if he was caught. There would likely be screaming, cussing, and he would be thrown out into the cold with little more than what he'd gone in with. That is to say, nothing at all.

He therefore had nothing to lose. He snuck up to the property, eying where the doors were and carefully opening the one he judged to be a side entrance. From there, it was a simple matter of sneaking in and sneaking out. There was initially no problem. The difficulty lay in, of all things, what he was supposed to steal.

Clothing had certainly changed since he'd last snuck a peek at the human race. To be truthful, even he could admit that had been a long time ago. There was that incident with the big ship and the rye bread incident, in which he had not helped matters at all, but that was in the mid-nineteenth century, maybe. Even then, he could hardly follow what was fashion and what was rags.

Modern day, it seemed, had altered very much in that regard.

There was a plain long-sleeved tunic which he grabbed, along with some cotton trousers which stretched rather than had a pre-set size. They should fit him, he considered, even as skinny as he was. He briefly took a look at the shoes before dismissing the notion. They seemed much too colourful for his tastes.

He left then, putting on some speed when he heard movement from another room, and quickly closing the door behind him. It wasn't until he was hidden behind the shade of the trees, several minutes of running away, that he stopped to slip the clothes over his body.

Such a strange shape, was a human. Snakes were so much more elegant. They didn't need silly things like limbs and fingers and clothes to function. Jörmungandr allowed a moment to lament, before deciding it was time to move on.

West was his destination. West, and home-bound.

\--

He hadn't travelled more than two miles before he heard something from between the trees.

He was walking largely on foot now, enjoying the alien feeling of the snow between his toes, but as soon as the noise registered in his mind he was creeping through the forest, footsteps softer, more delicate.

He clambered up to the lower branches, darting across the bark and peering down to where the source of the sound was. It was hard to miss.

There he saw a child, small and blond and alone. The child was crying.

\--

Harry was seven years old. He had thought himself brave this morning when he'd woken up; ready to go on an adventure with his big brother. Chris had told him not to wander off, but Harry was feeling bold, and Harry didn't listen.

Now he knew he wasn't brave at all. He was lost in the woods, petrified of every little sound, sobbing into his gloves and wanting to go home. He just wanted to be safe with his mummy and his brother and his sister. This adventure was the worst idea in the world. He would never go on another adventure again.

He'd been out here for hours, trying to find his way back but only wandering further astray. There was meant to be a path somewhere, but no matter which way he turned he couldn't find it. And no one had found him, either.

He knew they were out looking for him. His mummy would eventually discover him, he knew she would. She was out there, yelling his name in her search. He wished he could hear her.

Instead he heard nothing more than a rustle in the trees. It wasn't an uncommon sound, birds and animals lived amid the branches even in the dead of winter, so he paid it no mind.

Until suddenly something large dropped down straight in front of him and Harry screamed.

"No, no," A voice said as Harry backed away, terrified and yelling at the top of his lungs. "Please, child, calm down."

Harry screeched when the creature tried to move forward, and it was only when it had taken several paces back and held up two long hands placidly that Harry realised that it was a man.

His voice wavered into nothing as he stared up at the towering person, wide-eyed and terrified, just to see the same expression echoed back at him. Viridian eyes were blown into large discs as he watched the child warily in return.

The silence stretched on between them as Harry was no less intimidated by this man even though he felt as if he had never been so happy to see another person before. But he'd learnt about stranger-danger, and he wasn't taking any chances.

"Are you lost?" The man eventually said, carefully and slowly so not to startle Harry again.

The boy sniffed, nodded, eyed the man critically. "I can't find my mummy."

"Where did you lose her?"

Harry shrugged, glancing around the forest which looked the same no matter where he found himself. "There's a road-" he tried to explain, but teetered off when nerves got the best of him. The man's focus was very steady, and his eyes were very green.

"Don't cry, youngling. We'll find it."

"But I've looked everywhere!" The boy sobbed, throwing himself to the ground as a new wave of tears spilt down his cheeks. He tried to cover it up, embarrassed to be seen weeping in front of a stranger, but he couldn't help himself.

He looked up a few minutes later when the man dropped down beside him, and Harry noticed for the first time that he was clad in only the thinnest of materials, inappropriate for the Scandinavian winter, yet he looked for all the world like he had never been warmer. He certainly seemed to feel more comfortable than Harry did, who was shivering even inside his great padded overcoat.

"Are you afraid?" The man asked as Harry's crying finally ceased, but the child didn't answer the question for two reasons. The first was that, _no_ , he wasn't, despite the fact this was a very strange man with a very strange face and very strange eyes, and the second was that the man was soaked to the bone and Harry wanted to know why.

"There's been no rain." He pointed out, and the stranger nodded agreeably.

"No rain, little one. I did not come from the rain."

"Then why are you wet?"

"I came from the lake."

This didn't make sense to Harry, but he supposed the man must have fallen in. He'd done that  before, and Ruth - his older sister - had to fetch him because he couldn't swim very well.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Jörmungandr."

"That's not a name."

"What's yours?" The ginger man asked instead on call the child out on his rudeness.

"Harry." He said, and the man laughed shortly.

"It's a better name than Jörmungandr," he agreed conversationally, setting out a small array of small, shiny objects in front of his legs to study each individually.

"What are they?" Harry asked, not daring to touch when Jörmungandr as cradled each in seperate reverence.

"They're beads. For my hair." He elaborated, gesturing to his lengthy and still-dripping locks. "They have been gifted to me from my family. When my hair is dry, perhaps you can help me put them back in?"

Harry nodded slowly, spotting a very pretty green and silver one which swirled like a snake. "Did they come out when you fell into the lake?"

Jörmungandr laughed, leaning back crossed-legged in the snow with the force of his chortles and delighted by the child before him, shaking his head in reply.

"No, dear thing, I did not fall into the lake. I _came_ from it."

"You mean across the lake? I'm from England. The Americans say that's 'across the pond'. What about you?"

"I'm Norwegian."

"Is that across the lake?"

"No. Sweden connects these two lands. Norway and Finland are not separate."

"You're Scandinavian, then? My mum says that Russia is one way and Scandinavia is the other." He pointed to illustrate what he said, most likely in the wrong directions, but Jörmungandr didn't correct him for his mistakes.

"That's right."

"You don't sound like the people from here."

"I'm not from here."

"You kinda sound like my great uncle William."

"I have travelled a great deal, sweet child. When you see the world as I have seen it you pick one or two things up. An accent, for example."

"No, really. You're posh. You look like an," Harry struggled over the word; the same one his parents used to explain why great uncle William smoked a funny-smelling pipe and answered everything with a quote from a dead playwright. "An _eccentric_."

Jörmungandr spent a moment staring at him, before a disbelieving  huff escaped his lips.

"Of all the things I have been called over the years, of which there has been many, that is novel."

"You're wearing a girl's top."

"Is that so?" Jörmungandr said, without a hint of concern to his voice. He didn't even look down in surprise. He continued to stare Harry in the eye until Harry looked down and bit his lip.

"It's nice." He said, and it was. It was a dark blue, making his hair stand out vividly against the material. The fact it was designed for a female seemed to bother the ginger man about as much as the cold did. "How come you sound English when you're Norwegian?"

"That is a very good question. To answer, I have had many years to hone my accent."

 "What does 'hone' mean?"

"Sharpen." Jörmungandr returned without missing a beat, before counting his beads once more, muttering, " _Atten_ ," to himself, and swiftly unfolding his legs to stand up.

Harry followed, alarmed when the adult almost stumbled to the ground.

" _Limbs_ ," The man with the funny name snarled, glaring down at his shaky legs and bare feet.

"You have no shoes on." Harry noticed suddenly, to which the tall man only scoffed.

"Shoes and I are incompatible. I'm still getting used to _these_ ," he shook one leg in demonstration, before straightening himself up and correcting his skewed clothing. "One step at a time, fingerling.

"We should get back to your family. Perhaps you remember the correct location of where you left them more accurately than where you judge Russia to be."

Harry blushed, and Jörmungandr patiently smiled. "I don't know. I'm trying to get back to them."

"Then we must journey on. The night will soon be upon us."

They started to walk, Jörmungandr gesturing in one direction and Harry trusting him. As an adult, surely this man must know where he was going. Throughout the hike through snowy grounds, Harry didn't cease questioning his new-found companion on all variety of topics, most especially his home - a subject which the red-haired man was more than happy to tell tales of. Harry didn't believe all of them. There was something about a troll?

Part way through their roaming, Harry started to find the forest frightening again, when the shadows slowly growing longer and the rustling in the branches becoming more animate with his imagination. With his rapidly dwindling nerve he found the courage to grab onto Jörmungandr's fingers and grip tightly. Jörmungandr didn't stop him, and simply distracted the child with another story of the silly things he and his older brother did together when they were young.

"I have an older brother, too," Harry interjected when Jörmungandr paused for breath. "His name is Chris and we don't always get on."

"That's alright. Fenrir and I were terrible to each other. Well, _I_ was terrible, at least."

"Mummy is always telling us off for fighting."

"I did not see you as a fighter, fry," Jörmungandr peered back to observe the child dangling at the end of his arm, and shook his head. "You are more of a thinker. I am."

"Chris is stronger than me," Harry admitted, thinking back to when his brother had stolen his lego Iron Man and refused to give it back by holding it above his head and keeping Harry back with just his outstretched arm. "Taller, too."

"Fenrir is still both taller and stronger than me." Harry's companion revealed with a sigh. "More a mountain than a man."

They were continuing east, though what they were looking for was unclear until it came into view.

"There's a house!"

Harry dashed forward, letting go of Jörmungandr's hand as he did so and therefore not realising when the man fell behind. It was only when he was almost at the door that he looked back to find the red-head watching on from the shadow of the trees.

"Hey, come on! They can help us!"

"I'm fine here." He called, pointing to the ground with a smile. "Just ask them where the town is. You do recall what it's called?"

Harry didn't. It hadn't been his fault, he swore. He was only a tourist, come to play in the snow and shove snowballs down Ruth's coat with Chris and celebrate Christmas. The name of the town had been a plethora of syllables and foreign sounds and he hadn't so much as listened, never mind retained any of the information his mother gave them.

Jörmungandr just waved a hand, telling him it would be alright. Their best chance was the closest town anyway.

"I don't want to-" he started, but faltered, not wishing to look afraid in front of the man who had led him so far to safety. Jörmungandr might laugh at him for being scared, like Chris often did.

"I'm here," the red-head said from the shadows. "It will all be fine."

So, gathering his bravery, he slowly approached the door and very carefully knocked. He glanced back, glad to see that Jörmungandr hadn't disappeared the moment his back was turned, before facing the door when it started to open.

\--

Since Jörmungandr wasn't able to go up to the door he instead made a show of looking around for any apparent 'clues' in the scenery, acting as if a dumb but stubborn parent as he left Harry to talk to the woman who had answered the door.

Of course he couldn't go talk to her - he was wearing her clothes, after all. It was better Harry not find out he was a thief, since Jörmungandr still had to get the child to trust him enough to get him home.

He waited patiently for the woman to finish giving stilted directions, realising that perhaps it would have been easier to suck up pride and hope she hadn't noticed. At least he could speak the language. Harry was only a child, and a long way from home.

However, the boy came back triumphant, armed with a map and a large grin which swallowed up half of his face.

"We need to head south." He declared, passing over the diagram for Jörmungandr to study.

"There," Harry pointed, to where the woman had helpfully circled a loop around the town Harry's family were staying in. "She was wondering why you were all the way over here."

"What did you tell her?" He replied, interested in what the child's excuse for his odd behaviour had been.

"The truth," Harry stated proudly. "That you're an _eccentric_." He grabbed Jörmungandr's hand again and, completely true to form, started to tug him in entirely the wrong direction. "Let's go!"

"If you'd like to see St. Nicholas, then yes, that is the correct heading."

Harry flushed under his woolly hat, before turning around. He looked to Jörmungandr dubiously, checking for confirmation, before setting off again, this time straight towards his family.

A few hours later, Jörmungandr at least knew where they were, but there was another problem creeping in.

"It's getting dark, stickleback."

Harry had noticed before him, as Jörmungandr then became aware - the child had started to walk a little closer to him, and clung onto his hand a little tighter. He wished to pick up the pace, but Harry had legs which were far too small to withstand the speed Jörmungandr would have preferred to aim for.

But they were close, and that was something at least. What wasn't quite as wonderful was the fact the light was already too dim to continue to read the map.

Under any normal circumstance it would be only the work of a click of a finger to summon a flame, or even just a glow - enough for him to figure out the rest of their path. As it was, when he was dry of seiðr and pointedly not facing that particular truth, he felt as human and useless as tiny little Harry.

He cast around inside himself again, just in case there was any more of his mother's protection spell to utilise, and was surprised to find the faint impression of another enchantment - one he had never noticed before. It had the same warmth which he'd come to associate with Angrboða's magic, but he couldn't immediately recognise the charm. He'd rather leave it, therefore, than niggle at it when he wasn't sure what it was. Magic was temperamental like that.

If the worst came to the worst, and he meant the _worst_ of the worst, only then would he use it for his own purposes. Until then, he had come to rather like life.

"We'll be okay, right?" Harry said from his side, whilst Jörmungandr nodded, trying to be confident for the youngling.

"We'll be fine."

Jörmungandr would be, anyway. Humans, on the other hand, had always been so fragile.

\--

They would have had to stop soon after, had it not been for the sprites.

"We're going south," Jörmungandr had explained, watching the trees and the tiny fairies which were running in the opposite direction. "They're going north."

Harry didn't believe him about the sprites, and they didn't have the time to spare for Jörmungandr to prove it to him. Instead, the boy had to trust that he wasn't a lunatic. Had to pretend that Jörmungandr was telling fairytales to keep him calm.

Harry was stubbornly silent, and had been since the darkness had fallen. He listened to the older of the two speak, Jörmungandr's voice masking the silence and filling the night. Harry was afraid that if he opened his own mouth he would start to cry. But it had been his quietness, his keen ears perked and petrified of the potential dangers around them, that was the reason either of them heard something. Jörmungandr clearly took notice of nothing over the sound of himself, but Harry shook his hand enough for him to fall silent.

"What is it, goby?" He asked, a continuation of all the various and increasingly ridiculous things the red-head had been referring to Harry by; anything but his name. Whatever a goby was, Harry ignored asking in favour of shushing the tall man.

Jörmungandr was instantly alert, eyes darting to and fro around the darkness, eventually hearing what Harry could. The _snick_ of fabric, the bark of dogs, and arguing voices.

"We must be _very_ close, paedocypris." He smiled, picking Harry up and holding him close as they started to run through the trees.

When they found the voices, Jörmungandr stopped with enough time to ensure that Harry recognised the voices. There was some murmured chatter in Finnish, but it was drowned out by a passionate argument in English. A woman, yelling at a man, and the gentleman returning with accented words, saying she was foolish.

"It is too dark! We will have to try again tomorrow!" He was insisting, but was cut short when a small body burst through the trees and Harry stood before them, grinning and proud to have discovered them before they discovered him.

"Harry!" The woman gasped, going to grab him as Jörmugandr watched from the shadows. "Oh, thank god! We lost you! We didn't know where you were!"

She was crying over his shoulder, clinging to him as he returned her embrace. He was happy to have found her, all his fears gone in the instant he was reunited with his mother, whilst the rest of the group - volunteers who had offered to help scour through the forests in the hopes of finding the child - followed the barks of the dogs who had caught onto Jörmungandr's scent, and peered in through the shadows.

"Hey!" One snapped, startled when they suddenly happened upon him, drawing him out back into Harry's eyesight. "Who are you?"

"I found the child." He explained, whilst Harry echoed the sentiment to his mother in English, blissfully unaware of the suspicious looks the men and women were casting upon the red-head.

"This is Jörman- Jörmun-" he floundered, biting his lip apologetically, whilst the serpent filled in the gap for himself.

"My name is Jörmungandr," he introduced to Harry's mother.

"I'm Grace." She replied with not a short amount of tentativeness, though largely she seemed relieved. "Thank you for bringing him back."

"My pleasure." He returned with a nod, ignoring the man who had been arguing with her; who now came to put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"You need to go to the hospital." He said, inexplicably in English. "Your feet and arms are bare. How are you not frozen?"

Jörmungandr glanced down, wiggling his toes and wondering whether a lot of hassle would have been avoided had he decided to snag a pair of shoes.

He had wanted to defend himself, tell them he was fine, but his legs were aching, his head was still ringing from this morning and then an afternoon of mindless chatter, mostly his own, and he simply wanted a place to rest, just for a little while. A hospital would be ideal, even if they found something odd about him he perhaps did not want them to see.

But Harry was looking at him now, all wide-eyed and innocent and pleading, and Jörmungandr finally concluded that, if it made a little boy happy to see him safe for the night, then what harm could it truly do? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Forgot Loki and Jack again. >.>  
> They're in the next chapter so stay with me guys, stay with me. I've been steam-rolling through these chapters so we can focus on more important matters, like plot. There's just so much to do, and so much to explain! But I love these characters beyond belief, so they totally deserved a chapter each from me. Try not to hate me for it.


	12. In the Face of Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Had to return to plot again. Jormungandr was a nice break from that. Consider him an interlude that will actually come back and be relevant. So technically a plot point, but only indirectly.  
> OH HEY GUYS NICE TO SEE YOU I LOST MY COMPUTER BECAUSE IT DIED AND THAT’S WHY THIS IS A LITTLE LATE. Dunno when I’m getting it back, so I’ve stolen someone else’s for the time being.  
> To continue with my never-ending tales of woe, I wrote half of this chapter all at once and then lost it, so some of this was typed out angrily. This chapter is cursed, I swear. If you guys like it then great, but I’m growing to hate it.

Pitch’s day had been fairly standard so far.

There were still issues with his fearlings he needed to work out (some had yet to figure out that Pitch was back at full power. Not the brightest of things, his little minions) and he still hadn’t had time to so much as sit down, never mind reclaim anything that was once his. The children still didn’t believe in him, but he had enough power to see him through, and that was, if nothing else, a relief.

However, there was only so much fear in the world he could siphon if it wasn’t meant for him. And there was only so much excess from the Æsir’s panic that could keep him going for the foreseeable future. He’d rather not use it all up at once, but, with the fearlings’ persistence, he had little other choice.

He knew it was not their fault that they were still coming after him. They were creatures only following their noses, and they needed to eat as well. Pitch would rather not destroy them, as each had taken time and anger to create, but at this point, again, his options were severely limited.

However, these were problems he was slowly getting used to. Just a normal day, really. Except for one thing.

 _Pitch_.

It was a name on the wind, heard by a sixth sense which latched on the sound of his own name throughout the realms. It was a trick he had mastered, utilising the natural seiðr of the world in much the same way all-seers did, in order to recognise when someone called out for him specifically. He was always, after all, happy to be at the centre of attention.

It seemed fainter than usual though, strange and echoing and difficult to pinpoint, but Pitch followed the signal regardless, intrigued by its intensity and doggedness, how it refused to cease. He soon discovered its location: the centre of somewhere strange.

He found on the other end of a shadow a seiðrless land, muffling the noise through the magical link. Pitch almost stumbled from the force of his landing in somewhere so vile.

It was not that he was dependent on natural seiðr, but without the fear of the children it was almost all he had left. He flitted through the shadows despite himself, irrespective of the fact he’d rather leave and linger in his own darkened fortresses, but he felt the tug of familiarity with the voice and a sharp stab of curiosity – the knowledge that this could be the get-out clause he had been searching for.

Instead he found something that started out as a disappointment: Jack Frost – no, wait, excuse him, Jack _Lokison_ – screaming his names into the trees. Well, that was not quite what Pitch expected, but it did answer a few questions.

However, it also posed some new ones.

He was in no mood to talk to Jack, tired and irritated by Jack’s kin as it was, and would rather leave well enough alone. Instead, he was more taken by the notion of this island; isolated and stripped of magic, adorned with nothing but the prayers and terrors of the gods. As much as the land made his skin crawl, it also soothed some of his more primal fears. It infused him with the nightmares those people of Vanaheim and Asgard both wished to leave behind on the sacred isle, calmed his nerves down enough to explore. So, explore Pitch did.

And what an adventure it turned out to be.

He first discovered Sandman, anxious and pulling at his fingers, listening to Jack try to reach out to Pitch but failing to receive him. Pitch followed the small man, keeping deep in the darkest shadows of the rocks, down into a cave where a wolf was lying, watching the golden guardian carefully, curiously, as if there had never been a more intriguing creature. Perhaps there hadn’t to this animal – not when the chains he was bound by looked as if they restricted his access to the world outside.

Then Pitch understood, almost spat at himself for his lapse in memory, watching the shaggy wolf as it suddenly jerked its head his way, startling the Nightmare King enough to force his hand. He fled before the guardians could find him, before the canine sniffed him out, and returned back to the land beyond the lake, looking on to the distant horizon where Jack was still yelling towards the heavens.

Pitch vaguely wondered what the child wanted from him. Most of the Nightmare King, however, was preoccupied with thoughts of someone more important in the grand scheme of things than Jack Lokison.

It took him a few hours before he even had a clue towards the other’s whereabouts, but there was only so far one could go when you were on the run and _a prince of Asgard_. Loki was hard to find, that was true enough, but not for one who wore the shadows as a second skin; Pitch could flit through the realms faster than the time it took Loki to blink.

“Loki,” Pitch called out upon finding him, barely dodging the knife which came soaring towards his head upon the tail-end of the second syllable. He knocked it away just in time and it was snatched up from the ground by the pale fingers of an irate god. It had not been a personal attack, so Pitch took no offense. “I don’t know why you’re at all surprised to see me.”

Not that Pitch wasn’t expecting such a welcome. Loki, worn out and furious at the world, would have thrown his weapon towards anyone who startled him. Pitch should have anticipated almost becoming the victim of the ex-prince.

“Perhaps you should not sneak up on armed fugitives.” Loki advised, to which Pitch nodded acceptingly.

Loki, he noticed, as he watched the blade disappear into the intricacies of his outfit, was most certainly not coping with the sudden turn in his life. He was sharper, colder, almost glaringly so, but it was not so much of a curious thing on account of the fact he was tired from travel and sick of his magicless existence. He had clearly not managed to get as far as he had intended; he was also starting to realise his own pathetic dependence on his magic. That he had survived so far without being caught was solely due to the fact he was avoiding people like a plague had spread among the peasantry.

“I bring news,” Pitch announced as Loki turned his back and continued on his way. Pitch kept up with him through flitting to meet him at each shadow, not disheartened by the way Loki kept his determined gaze forward facing. “You will wish to hear it, Odinson.”

 _This_ , at least, caused Loki to stop, even if it seemed to be because he was seconds away from hurling another knife Pitch’s way. Something about the expression stated that this time Loki would not miss.

“It is not bad news,” Pitch tried to defend himself, but it did little to calm Loki’s ire. Rather, he stormed away once more, but not without a bitter laugh to see him off.

“You do not bring good news, Nightmare King. I have reasons to believe such things would burn your mouth.”

“I am not incapable of niceties,” Pitch protested, smiling when he appeared directly in front of Loki and the god was forced to stop short. “You will regret it if you do not listen.”

Loki suddenly leaned forward, surprising in its aggressive nature when he was seiðrless and therefore a non-potent threat. Yet, everything about him screamed the opposite: though he had no magic he was not, in fact, powerless. He was as much a danger now than he ever had been; worse, even, since he now had something to prove.

“Leave me be.” He said darkly, and Pitch felt the chill of his breath shiver down his back, though that might be something to do with the sudden temperature drop. Loki still had an influence upon the world, it seemed, small as it may be.

It was a posturing gesture; something that, at the very heart of it, was ridiculous. Loki was trying to prove himself without having to actually do so, aware that he would fail if asked. But, largely incapacitated as it was, he was not weak, and nor would he succumb to the whims of someone he considered lesser than him. Unfortunately, Pitch was exactly the same and was not about to put up with a spoiled brat of a prince having a strop because _daddy didn’t love me_.

He took the stubborn man’s arm in hand and, before Loki could protest, shot through the shadows and deposited them both upon the lands of Vanaheim. Immediately Loki grimaced, not at Pitch, but at the uncomfortable environs which surrounded them; suffocated the magic users as if being plunged into the depths of the ocean.

“Southern Vanaheim?” He asked unnecessarily, and Pitch nodded.

“You know this place.” It was not a question. There were relatively few areas of the nine realms which Loki did not know on sight.

“I avoid it, as others do. It is sacred ground.”

Pitch considered for a moment how clever it was of Odin to hide Fenrir here; a place that was safe of any powerful mage like Loki who may be capable of breaking the chains binding the wolf. Sorcerers would rather sacrifice their innate magic than spend elongated time here. The silence of the air would start to clamber in, dig inside delicate psyches, push the sanity straight out any unhinged mind. And though wizards varied widely across the lands, they all shared a fairly consistent trait between them: not a single one of them could be considered stable.

Loki was worse than most of them. He was so powerful, so innately brilliant with magic, that it had broken him all the more. He intimidated his fellow mages with his abilities, along with his delicate mental state.

He was sensitive to the surrounding magic of the worlds so well that he could utilise the seiðr to open portals between realms; something that no one before could ever had imagined it possible to do.

And that sensitivity was an ability which remained, even with his magic bound under his skin. Despite the fact that here was empty and just about the safest place in the nine realms from wandering eyes, it unnerved the sorcerer more than he could enunciate. Here, the last pittance of his power diminished to nothing and so did everything he was worth. With no seiðr to so much as comfort him, Loki was essentially human.

There _was_ a plan in bringing Loki here, as there always was. The fact was that Fenrir had a keen nose, and had been capable of picking even Pitch out of the shadows. He would be able, therefore, to pick up the lingering traces of magic that seeped out of Loki’s skin even at this distance, from all the way across the lake. He would no doubt become distressed, and it would be communicated to the two guardians which kept his company. Being the altruistic heroes they were, foolish and brave, they would come here. They would confront Loki.

And Loki would react.

In a way, this was an act of kindness on Pitch’s part. He had willingly brought Loki closer to two of his lost sons than anyone else had before or likely would again, and all he had left to do now was identify them. But it was also an act of cruelty.

The fact remained that Loki could not perceive the Island Lyngvi until someone told him of it, and that someone would most certainly _not_ be Pitch. Perhaps it would be Jack, but that depends how well Loki took their first reunion.

It was two-fold in its malice, was Pitch’s plot. And there was a reason for that.

Loki and Pitch were not friends. They may occasionally work together, combine their resources for each other’s gains, but they were much more likely to actively sabotage one another’s plans. Further, they oftentimes played games to see how far they could push one another, just because they could. Just because there was no reason not to. Truly, they were only interested in seeing the other _snap_.

Worse was the fact that Loki was unravelling. He was spiralling so quickly downwards that it almost made Pitch uneasy – it had hardly been days since he had escaped from Asgard and yet Loki already looked as if he had been on the run as long as Pitch had. The fact that Pitch could irritate him so quickly, so easily, was yet another clue towards his quickly dissolving mental state. He was usually more level-headed.

However, it wasn’t truly strange, on account of the fact that Loki without magic was unusual enough in the first place. Seeing Loki so bereft of seiðr and yet continuing on was like watching him attempt to talk with thread sown through his lips. Again.

Loki walked into a clearing, eyes casting around his location, obviously attempting to see what it was Pitch brought him here for.

“Wait.” Pitch instructed him, knowing there was only so much time left before Jack and Sandman’s consciences got the better of them and they went on a mission to protect the second-born Lokison.

As if on cue, the air above them started to twist and alter from the influence of outside magic and the guardians came out through the portals that Nicholas St. North was in the habit of using. They landed not far from where Loki and Pitch hid, making a lot of noise which would put a hunter to shame. It allowed the two older men to sink back into the shadows – Pitch in a much more literal sense than Loki.

The prince, instead of disappearing into the black wholly, stepped behind a tree and used his dark clothing as camouflage. He kept his body compressed against the bark, decreasing his size as if he were facing an enemy, but his position allowed him a useful observation point from which to watch the new-comers.

Pitch’s eye was trained on Loki in fascination – he had seen how the emerald eyes had widened when the portal had whirred into life, could practically _feel_ the way Loki’s brain was piecing it all together: _They have an easy, external method of travel by magic._ Loki was planning again, following them carefully as he did so, and Pitch joined in the pursuit by stalking the stalker.

He was there, hidden deep within the darkness, when Loki deigned it appropriate to reveal himself to his son. Pitch watched as Jack spotted him, slacked from his battle-ready pose, and took a step forward. The Nightmare King was seconds away from seeing first-hand just how far Loki had gone, mentally. There was no love in his gaze when he looked to his youngest son – there was hardly even recognition. What Pitch would have given to see Jack’s face when he too came to realise this had no conceivable price.

But, of course, he did not see any further. It was in that moment that he was tugged backwards, magic wrapping itself securely around his elbows and knees, almost toppling him as they yanked at his body. It pulled him through his own shadows, utilising his favourite method of transportation to drop him somewhere else, somewhere new, and Pitch reluctantly allowed it.

It was a summoning spell. Pitch could tell from the very feel of it, and how it affected his magic. Summoning spells were only possible when the person the summoner wanted to bring to them was a sorcerer, and had seiðr accessible to them. They were hard, detailed and specific spells which could take many months to accomplish on account of the fact the ingredients were complicated and rare. Summonings, therefore, were not to be taken lightly.

Pitch would have fought it, considering how powerful he was a being, but the way summoning spells worked – by latching onto the individual’s magic and not letting go for death itself – required that, should the mage not wish to be summoned, they would have to release themselves of their attachments to their magic first. There were few magicians who were ever in so desperate a situation that they would willingly do such a thing.

Pitch, therefore, found himself sprawled ungracefully across a summoning circle. He had landed – hard, and onto a solid marble floor – somewhere he recognised, but he did not truly register where that was, nor who had summoned him, for a long moment.

Instead, he focused on his steady breaths and his brand new plots that were solely fuelled by his anger. Whoever had summoned him, no matter whom they may be or what they were trying to achieve by bringing him here, were going to pay. He swore by it.

Or, at least, he would have, had it been anyone else in the cosmos. Unfortunately for Pitch, there were one or two people in this universe he would rather keep the peace with than deliberately aggravate. Loki was not one of those people. His daughter, on the other hand...

Hel stood before him, just outside of the circle, terrifying and beautiful as always, sharp like her father, thin and tall and draped in finery, looking equally as awful as Loki had done.

She took a few seconds to allow Pitch to come to terms with his new surroundings, as well as to recalibrate his next few steps of his plan. Where, before, he had been preparing to exit the circle and firmly divorcing the summoner’s head from their shoulders, he was now trying to figure out how best to put on a front of complacency. Here, standing in the presence of the queen of Helheim, was no time for him to be Pitch Black. Instead, he tried to channel someone else. Someone more likely to bite his tongue than to deliberately offend the ruler of a realm where fear could not breech.

Eventually he stood up, nodding at her as respectfully as he could manage, and she dropped a small flame into the summoning bowl upon the table before her. Inside that bowl was all the objects combined to drag Pitch here – some of his magic, blood of the stars, sacred bones of kings, the usual. Setting light to them destroyed them, freed him of his bindings. However, that did not mean Pitch was capable of leaving. Nothing was ever so simple with Hel.

“Greetings, Pitch Black,” she called out pleasantly, eyes straying from the burning bowl up to the man surrounded by the complex markings of the summoning circle. “You and I are scheduled for a long overdue chat, don’t you agree? I wouldn’t look so worried, Nightmare King – you are safe from your fearlings here.”

Such a statement was not designed to comfort him, despite what her tone may present. Rather, it was a reminder: _You have no power here. No influence. Perhaps looking so worried is the only rational response_. Well, message received, loud and clear.

She smiled at him as he tentatively left the circle, hyperaware of any forms of traps which she may have laid in preparation. Instead of tricking him, however, she merely beckoned him forward, turning on her heel and expecting him to follow. He hesitated, contemplated how quickly he could leave and whether he had time to ride the shadows before she realised what he was doing, before shaking his head and snarling at himself. He was not a stupid man, and he would not bring himself to underestimate the daughter of Loki.

He pushed his anxious body in her direction, trailing after her long dresses as they turned corners and flickered down long corridors. She led them both to a private room which overlooked her kingdom – a place that was very obviously designed for the more delicate of talks. Diplomacy had happened in this room and had led to the privacy Hel enjoyed today.

The room was empty of all furniture bar several large, deep-seated chairs, one of which was black and towering – Hel’s chair. She perched in it slowly, back straight and hands crossed over her lap. She tucked away her many layers and then glanced at him expectantly.

He sat opposite her, unable to do anything but follow the instructions given to him, and prepared himself for something serious.

What she said, however, set him at ease, simply because there was something within her voice that approached... fear. He hadn’t tasted such a primal emotion from Hel since she was a child. It was... delicious. Divine. Just about everything Pitch needed to settle back into his chair like this was his domain, like he was the king and she a lowly subject. It made him feel empowered again.

“What is his plan?” She questioned, and Pitch shrugged. Loki. She was focused on Loki, as everyone seemed to be at the moment.

He honestly had no answer to the query, simply because he did not know. Getting Loki to speak of what went on in his head was practically impossible. Odin would sooner release the Lokisons from their trappings than Loki would open up and _talk_ to someone.

He told her, slowly, clearly, that he did not know Loki’s mind. Though she did not wish to believe him, she also knew of Loki’s habits as well as Pitch did. There was no basis for her question at all, other than simple desperation.

“I know something is wrong,” she explained. “I spoke to Thor and he told me Odin was already plotting his retaliation. Or prevention. He will not rest until Loki is stopped.”

“Then there is little more you can do, Hel.”

She sneered, disgusted at his easy lounge in her chair, at his quick smile and sudden surety. “The All-Father believes it is Ragnarök.”

And there, with only a sentence, Hel had won back Pitch’s attention. He sat up quickly, eyes narrowed, shaking his head insistently.

“The signs are wrong-“

“Prophecies are not always accurate. The details are merely that – what matters is not the facets of the story, but the heart of it. And the heart is always Loki.”

Pitch thought to the man he had abandoned in the forests on Vanaheim. He wrapped his mind around the darkened eyes, the tense demeanour, the thirsty look of a dying man who had just found a lake in the middle of a desert. The same glance he gave Jack with his portals, rather than the one that should have been gifted to a boy by his father.

“Surely the seers can’t have gotten it all wrong, though?” He defended, having been keeping his eye out for all the indicators ever since Loki was first given motive for wanting to destroy everything and everyone daring to exist within creation. “The prophecies were explicit about the foresigns – the snake, the children, the winter-“ He stopped himself short, mind once more stuck on a white-haired spirit who loved his family endlessly. Obsessively. Enough so to find the power within him to defeat Pitch. Enough so to track down his brother and find him when no one else in thousands of years had managed such a feat.

Was it possible that he...?

No, Pitch reasoned. Jack Frost was many things, but he was not a boy who would willingly assist in bringing about the apocalypse, even if it was for his father.

But the Nightmare King’s head was still stuck back in Vanaheim, in that seiðrless clearing where Loki and Jack set eyes on each other properly for the first time in three hundred years. He had seen the shock on Jack’s face as easily as he had seen something else. Longing, love, a fraught desire to have his father returned to him. Love was a powerful thing – even Pitch knew that. Love drove people to places they never would have dreamed of otherwise. Love was the cause for as many deaths as hatred.

Perhaps he should not have tried to push Loki so far after all.

“What is it?” Hel snapped, bringing Pitch back to himself and realising his face had gone slack with sudden his slew of comprehension. He licked his lips slowly, a careful motion which allowed him the time between having to speak and pulling his thoughts together to contemplate how best to word his revelation. Hel had that look about her – the one which stated she might skin him for being so reckless as to put Loki in the presence of someone which could help him realise the prophecies. However, she would most certain skin him should he try to restrain his voice.

“There is a boy, a spirit, who has acted irrationally as of late. He has great influence over the winter, and Loki may utilise him for such a purpose.”

“Who is he?”

“Surely you know him?” Pitch smiled. “He is your sibling after all.”

Hel narrowed her eyes at him, processing that strange statement through her quick mind, before coming to a realisation of her own. Whether it was the correct one or not was none of Pitch’s concern. However, just to make her squirm, and to ensure she find no reason to state he was keeping anything more a secret, he deigned to inform her of a few extra details.

“Loki has him now, on Vanaheim. The spirit knows where Fenrir is.”

Hel stood up quickly, almost toppling the chair behind her as she did so, staring Pitch down angrily, nostrils flaring and mouth twisting unpleasantly. Several layers of masks dropped from her dainty face, and what was suddenly staring at him was precisely what the Æsir scared their children with at night: tales of a creature half-dead, rotting and terrifying on one side, dangerous and powerful on the other. A visage he himself had come to believe were falsehoods spread to further excuse the people from the wrongs they had inflicted upon the so-called ‘monstrous’ children of Loki.

Pitch did not cower, could not physically find it within him, because to him things that scared others were not frightful at all. Rather, they were the most beautiful things in all of creation. He had never before seen her look so devastatingly astonishing.

However, he had enough of an appreciation of her strength that he usually knew when to stay his tongue. Any sudden exclamations over her beauty would not be welcome. Not here, not now.

Instead he simply opened his hands, a falsely apologetic gesture, whilst she continued to snarl at him.

“You will stay away from my father,” she ordered, voice hollow and echoing – creepy enough to send a delightful shiver down his spine. “And you will face the consequences if you do.”

She stepped away, moving to the door, but here was where Pitch drew a line. There was only so much he was willing to cope with, and whilst he was respectfully wary of Hel at all times, she had no right to snap at him as if he were another dreary part of the help, a slave who would bow to her every whim. He was not a child to be chided for his misdeeds, and he would not listen when told.

He grabbed hold of her arm and gripping it tightly, pulling her up short. Her front had not yet come back – that pretty illusion which she usually kept so tightly stretched across her face – and she did not struggle in his grip. She was waiting, Pitch assumed, for the right time to strike rather than debase herself by explicitly showing who was the physically superior of the two. She instead took her time to sneer up at him as if he was worth nothing to her; was nothing compared to her. She was wrong.

“Let me go.” She demanded, in the exact same tone of voice Loki had used when he had only an hour ago told Pitch to leave him alone. Where Jack was nothing like his father in face, Hel was the spitting image. It only further enraged Pitch, who had had just about enough of being told what to do by this particular family.

“Listen to me, child,” he said darkly, and she stopped to listen to that voice. “If your father wants to raze his way through the nine realms, wreaking his revenge and burning every world which has scorned me or wronged me to the very ground, then I will consider it an _honour_ to support him. It is my _right_ , and I will not be ordered around by a _little girl_. It is foolish for you to ponder upon my allegiance if siding with Loki means destroying every single enemy and creature which will not pay me what I am owed. A better consideration, however, would be why you, dear little _Hela_ , will not join your father’s cause. After every wrong that has been inflicted upon him, upon you, upon your family, why would you side with those who want to destroy you?”

It was a question which clearly haunted not only Pitch, but Hel herself. Rapidly, a serious of complicated and conflicting emotions crossed over her features – confusion, distress, grief – before the expression settled into firm realisation. In it, Pitch recognised that here was the countenance of someone who knew precisely why they had to go through with the awful things they were soon going to do.

“I would have no way of stopping him if he decided to destroy the world right here and right now,” she confided, voice lowering with her anger, making it so that Pitch had to lean in to hear her. She had never looked so much like her father in that instant – determined and sure, dangerous and cruel in the face of the extent she was willing to go to achieve her own ends. Her face may have to something alien and strange, but everything about her suddenly screamed of her mighty heritage. “But the moment he drags my brothers into this, I will no longer stand by and watch. If he if the cause of their deaths, he will not have the chance to meet Heimdall in a battle to the dead. If he is the reasons my brothers die, I will not for one instant _hesitate_ to tear his life from his body as penance.”

Pitch looked to her then, honestly startled at the fury she suddenly portrayed and how she was shaking from the very force it. Her entire body heaved with her passion, her rage, and Pitch did not for one second doubt her.

“Let me go.” She repeated, softer this time, and he complied before thinking. He watched her leave, this time without protest, and realised that perhaps it was in his best interests to listen to the queen of Helheim and not help Loki in the bringing of Ragnarök.

But then, where was the fun in that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to Bob Dylan. Don’t normally write to music, but the curse needed to be broken and apparently Bob Dylan was the one to do it. It’s still shorter than usual, but it’s close enough to 5,000 that I’m going to ignore it.


	13. No One Told Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD CLOCKWORKCLOWN DREW ME FANART OF PITCH AND HEL FROM THE LAST CHAPTER: http://clockworkclown91.tumblr.com/post/44973061324/hes-got-the-honey-glow-3-a-redraw-of-this-from
> 
> AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Sandman did not have a way with words – a given due to his hushed nature; his quiet disposition formed so not to wake the children. This was usually not a problem.

The fact was that Sandman had no real need for speech. His job was to bring dreams and peace to the children, something he could do on his own; a duty he was glad to perform.

Where Toothiana needed her voice to instruct her fairies, or North to direct his yetis, elves and reindeer, and Bunnymund his eggs, Sandman worked alone. Sandman’s voice stayed within him, and his speech was lost along the way.

And even when he wished to interact, he still did not need to open his mouth. His dream sand was useful for that, depicting his thoughts like they depicted the dreams of the young ones he visited at night. His friends were capable of interpreting them and could now keep up with him as if he were speaking as they were.

And then there was Jack, who was still getting used to it.

Sandy didn’t mind. He remembered first meeting the others, bright-eyed and eager to protect the children, and they hadn’t understood him either. It had taken them all time but they caught on eventually. Jack was just still in the beginning stages.

But Jack, poor Jack. Sandman was almost glad there was some level of misinterpretation between the two of them, simply because Sandy was still distressed by the idea of who he was and what he had lost.

All the guardians had known of the winter spirit since Jack had first arrived those three-hundred years ago. Nevertheless, there was little to no interaction between any of them, and Jack continued with his lone-wolf act whilst the guardians continued to overlook him. For the longest time, he was nothing but a nuisance to him, yet throughout it all Jack had always been a guardian like them. They all took too much time to latch onto the fact.

Sandy, at least, regretted the time he should have spent in Jack’s company. There was so much he could have done to help him – he hadn’t realised the children were blind to the winter spirit, and nor he had he recognised the loneliness Jack consistently wore about him. Despite all the play the sprite engaged in with the children, Jack was alone and he did not like it as much as he claimed to.

Tooth, Sandy knew, also felt wretched – just a talk or two between them would have cleared up Jack’s history so much sooner. Perhaps things could have been changed, and certain outcomes completely avoided.

Things such as Loki. Jack had stated he’d seen Loki throughout the years but hadn’t known his significance. If he had just been a little earlier, perhaps what had happened in New York may not have even occurred. Perhaps what had unfolded upon their ultimate reunion could have gone differently.

How Sandy wished that _had_ gone differently.

He had seen Loki in the trees as Jack had, had tried to keep Jack safe when the spirit’s fear dissipated and did not return until Loki had a hand around his throat. Sandy had failed in his mission to watch out for the boy, simply due to terrible circumstances and the fact that Loki, even as powerless and Jack and Sandy had been in that environment, was still the strongest of them all. Loki, eyes blank of emotion, wiped of caring and ignorant of the terror he’d produced in his own son, was a monster to behold.

Yet, Sandy didn’t run. He had _tried_ to help his friend, he honestly had. Jack was more than that, even: he was his family now, part of the guardians and one forevermore, and the older of the two was attempting with all his might to make up for past wrongs. He realised that perhaps it was unnecessary, as Jack held nothing against them and treated his past with such a blasé attitude that it put them all at ease they didn’t deserve. He therefore wouldn’t stop trying to get Jack free of his cruel father if it meant he had to put his own life on the line.

Unfortunately for Jack, it hadn’t come to that. Jack was not defended, was not saved; Jack’s father stabbed his hand into his stomach and didn’t so much as blink when his own child screamed.

Jack had fought, weak and bleeding. Jack had battled back, destroying the use of the snowglobe Loki had tried to steal and attempted to save both Sandy and himself at the same time.

Sandy had run when instructed, but had paused before he dived into the portal. He was _not_ leaving without Jack – he would not abandon him now.

He saw the spirit’s terrified face rapidly approaching and realised Jack would make it in time. The guardian of fun waved a frantic hand, telling Sandy to leave, _go now, don’t stop_. This time, Sandy obeyed.

Sandy landed on his island, not far from where they had left. He rolled in the sand for a short distance before stopping with his face to the sky, dark with the night and twinkling with stars, thankful they were free of the monster’s clutches.

Sandy sat up quickly, however, instead of remaining to catch his breath. His was mindful of the fact Jack was hurt, remembering Jack’s injuries vividly. It didn’t matter that the boy was technically already dead (which was merely another thing the guardians hadn’t know which they should have done), the wound looked serious and the best place to go would be the Warren. Bunny had a talent with fixing things.

But, casting his gaze around, Sandy was hit with the sinking feeling that Jack wasn’t where he should be. He made a quick round across the island, just to ensure the portal hadn’t spat Jack out elsewhere, but there was nothing to be found. Despite everything, despite the fact Sandy had _checked_ to make sure Jack would get back, he had still failed him. It was growing into a habit, falling short for the boy when they needed him the most. Sandy wouldn’t forgive himself this time.

He stood sharply, gathering his dream sand, powers rejuvenated now that he was back on Earth, and started on his journey to the North Pole. He may have failed Jack again, but he wasn’t about to let him face his father alone. Sandy would get back to him immediately, hopefully with at least one guardian at his back, and fight off the monster. He would get Jack _home_.

However, North’s workshop was a long journey ahead of him, with too much time being wasted just to arrive. During the flight, Sandy tried not to linger on the thought that Loki could still have Jack in his grasp now. Family or not, that creature had evil about him and darkness in his eyes. There was nothing left in his soul which had the capacity to grant Jack mercy.

By the time Sandy had made it to the North Pole he was a wreck with worry and he knew it. He blasted his way into the bustling palace, quickly thinking to grab an elf and shake as he made his way to the centre of the mess. Immediately noise stopped when the workers cast their eyes upon him. What they saw, the usually calm Sandman out of his mind with concern, seemed to act to much teh same effect as North having to scream for silence.

North himself, looking exasperated at yet another interruption from a fellow guardian (no doubt he’d already had one too many from Jack. This really was not his year) came forward with a slew of mild but chiding Russian on his tongue, which was quickly stopped short when Sandy looked to him, besides himself with distress, and threw an onslaught of symbols his way.

North took a moment to translate everything once Sandy had finished, but he didn’t even question the older guardian once he had. He barked at two yetis to come with him, before telling everyone else to get back to work. Christmas was rapidly approaching and now was not the time to be slacking.

Sandy followed his quick pace up towards his office, where North grabbed his coat and swords and took a handful of snowglobes from the drawer. He tossed one to Sandy and the small man projected the image of the clearing into his mind before tossing the globe into the centre of the room. Immediately the spirit of wonder dove in, Sandy following with the yetis straight after.

They landed upon the solid ground, Sandy once again feeling lightheaded from the lack of magic in his surroundings. North seemed not to be phased by it, but then his strengths had always been found within his fighting, not in his magic.

The larger man had drawn his swords already, glancing around warily and ready for any enemy to jump out of the shadows and cross his blades. He was prepared for anything, except, it seemed, nothing. Which was precisely what they found.

Sandy did not have the voice to wail, but he felt that if he could of, this would have been the time. There was only so much disappointment and fear he was prepared to take at once, and today had been the day which had crossed over that line over and over again. He had sworn Jack would be fine – he’d told himself repetitively that all he would have to do was go back and find him and get him back to Earth. The young spirit would be fine then, he had to be.

Sandy hadn’t for a second considered what would happen if Jack wasn’t there to be found at all.

\--

Jack woke up cold, which was, to say the least, a little disturbing. Jack didn’t do cold. Jack was the spirit of winter. Jack brought the cold. Jack made other people feel the cold, but _he_ most certainly _didn’t_. Even when he was alive he had never had much of an issue with it – of the four of them, his mother had been the one who had suffered the worst in winter.

He was a part of the chill, he was one with it – his body was sub-zero temperature, his breath froze even the warmest of windows, his very touch could be harmful to those who weren’t careful. He remembered trying to keep Baby Tooth warm and failing spectacularly. So, no, cold was not something Jack had any great experience with.

He found it was more unpleasant than he remembered.

He slowly blinked open his  eyes, staring up at the dark, shadowed ceiling for a long time, trying to figure out why it hurt  so much to move. He felt stiff, tired, worn out, bled dry...

Bled dry.

Jack’s hand shot to his side, the memory of the pain and the wound and _Loki_ flaring back up, trying to find the site of the injury. He needed to see how bad it was, and whether he could do anything about it to stem the damage, keep his condition from getting worse. Thankfully, wherever he had wound up was somewhere new, heavy with magic dancing around the air, and Jack felt himself capable of healing with his powers, even dampened as they were this far from MiM.

He pointedly tried not to focus on what happened and the very reason why he was wounded in the first place. He did not want to linger on it, not sure what his emotions would do should he come to truly think.

He tried to find the site of the bleeding, winding up daring enough to prod at his flesh in order to identify the spot. There was a gore-stained hole in his hoodie which signalled how it hadn’t been a dream, but, even after slipping his hand under his clothes, he was speechless to find nothing there.

He tried to look with his eyes next, lifting the bottom of his hoodie upwards over his stomach, and saw definite signs of blood. The wound itself, however, was long gone, with not even a scratch to signal that it had been there at all. What in the hell had happened? Maybe someone had healed him, or his body had instinctively knitted back together as soon as it had magic at its disposal once more. Having not had experience with wound since he was alive, he really had no idea which was more likely.

He dropped his top and glanced around the room, staring at the drab interior and grand room design. Though the colours were dull, the sight was sublime, and Jack could only compare it to the luxuries found in Loki’s chambers on Asgard. Beyond that, he had never seen a room so richly decorated.

He was lying on a dark chaise longue, reclining on some white pillows at his back, and he saw his staff resting on a table to his right. By the table there was a chair pulled lazily underneath, as if someone had been sitting in it until recently. It was likely that person had been whoever had brought Jack here in the first place. He wondered whether it was too much to assume this was the hidden quarters of Tooth or Bunny or some secret room of North’s. As much as he hoped he was saved by the guardians, however, he could _feel_ that he was too far from Earth to be true.

God, he just wanted to go home.

The door slipped open silently, a whisper against the stone floors, and Jack looked up to see a young face, pale and thin, glancing in to see him. Immediately she shut it again with a small _snick_ , and Jack stood, wary of his unsteady legs, to chase after her.

He almost stumbled at being back on his feet so quickly, his body protesting when it was still recovering, though Jack had to wonder what precisely it was recovering from. He was fine, as far as he could see. With some amount of his magic back, he was better than he had been on that island that’s for sure.

He had just about made it to the door and was about to see whether it was locked when he had to jump back to avoid being smashed in the face as it swung open. This time it wasn’t such a careful, quiet entrance, and Jack immediately saw why.

The last girl who had looked in had seemed meek, simply checking up to ensure Jack was still alive. She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t looked like she was going to step in for anything short of an emergency, and had left as quickly as she arrived. This new lady to sweep into the beautiful room, however, was the complete opposite.

‘Meek’ was not even close to appropriate when describing her. Everything from her hair, rippling and long and dark as oil over snow, to her shoes, black and fanciful and velvet, screamed of her wealth, her status, her willingness to be flamboyant. Her tones perfectly matched the colourless surroundings. Not even her face had a hint of colour about it, with the exception of her eyes. Everyone Jack seemed to meet as of late seemed to have the same piercing green irises.

She glanced to him after she’d initially looked to the sofa, realising he was gone but not noticing him by the door until she had twisted herself around completely. She allowed a moment between them, in which they both stared each other down and her flowing robes took their time to settle, to catch up with her movements. Jack didn’t dare move, knowing instinctively that here was a woman he didn’t want to cross down a darkened alley. Likewise, he was also aware that this was her home, her house or mansion or palace or castle, and he would do well to avoid insulting her on her own turf.

“Hi.” He eventually tried when she didn’t seem like she was about to talk first. She didn’t reply with a polite greeting, however. Instead, she said (quite rudely):

“Who are you?”

“Jack Frost,” he introduced himself habitually, still not used to the feel of _Lokison_ on his tongue. Especially not now, when he was on the verge of teetering over into feeling nothing short of betrayed. It was a good thing, anyway, that he didn’t reveal his parentage without thinking, lest he meet an enemy of his father’s (of which, he had been reassured, there were many). “Who are you? And where am I?”

“You are at my home, Jack Frost,” she replied, eying him with no shortage of suspicion. “I am Hel.”

“Loki’s daughter?” Jack blurted out without a conscious process between thought and speaking, but it only garnered a nod from the pale woman.

“Indeed. Do you know my father?”

Jack snorted, nodding with a bitter smile. “Yeah, I know him.”

“How?”

“Oh, right, he probably wouldn’t have told you like he never told me.” Jack nodded, but stopped talking when Hel placed a long hand on his arm and used her tight grip to tug him back to the sofa. He winced again as he tried to make the trip, but she did not mention it. She did not even speak again until he was properly reclining against the pillows.

“Told me what, precisely, Mr. Frost?”

Hel settled on the chair by the table, gently placing herself down and crossing her hands. On her face was a patient expression, but one that Jack remembered too well on Loki from when he was a child. It was a face he used when he had caught Jack lying to him, but as a parent he wasn’t going to directly come out and admit he knew. Instead, he tortured Jack psychologically until he admitted his wrongdoing. No doubt it was because of the blood shared between them, but it was almost eerie how well that expression translated across to Hel.

The thing was, Jack wasn’t lying about anything. He didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve such a smile, therefore. He replayed their short conversation back in his head, wondering when he’d had time to lie in only a few short exchanges, before realising the obvious blunder he’d made at the very beginning.

Again, in his defence, it was an instinctive thing. He hadn’t properly called himself ‘Lokison’ since before he had died.

“Nothing.” He eventually said, intimidated under the gaze of the beautiful woman, who only quirked her eyebrow in response. She didn’t press him for anything, but that careful, judgemental expression remained.

“I would actually like to talk about my father, Mr. Frost.” She then said, seemingly accepting his need to change the conversation and get to the point of her visiting him.

Jack shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, opting for the truth without actually revealing the entirety of it. He picked his words carefully for the coming conversation. “I don’t really know him.”

“You just claimed that you did.”

“Not _well_.”

“No one knows him well, Mr. Frost.” Hel replied with that same unbreakable front of calm and her smooth, gentle voice which grated across Jack’s skin like silk skimming over barbed wire. “Not his family, not his friends. Not even, I am reasonably sure, himself. Nevertheless, that is not what I am interested in. I have an arguably reliable source who states you were one of the last ones to see my father as of late. I dare say a run in with him would have been particularly memorable, so I would like you to recall every detail for me.”

Jack’s hand immediately gravitated to his side, his fingers playing with the tear in his hoodie absently, worrying at it without realising. Hel’s eyes followed the sudden movement, emerald and narrow as her mind played over the implications of such a telling knee-jerk reaction.

“You were attacked?” She asked suspiciously, and Jack simply nodded. She could likely see the blood that still stained his skin and the blue of his top so there was no point in lying. Her lips thinned with discontent. “My father did this to you.” It was not a question.

“I’m fine. It’s fine.” He showed her the lack of a wound quickly, startled by the angry burn in her eyes. “What’s-“ he stuttered, wondering whether she’d respond to his question, but it had to be asked else he’d start niggling at it in his mind until he went insane with the thought of it. “What’s happening to him?”

“He’s degrading. You saw him.” She continued only after he nodded. “You saw how he was, consequently. I don’t know what precisely is twisting him, but it is nothing I want near my family. My father is not a man unaccustomed to tragedy and hardships, but he has never been this far gone.” She stopped then, eyes flickering back to Jack’s face where before they had started to wander towards the window which displayed the world outside was equally as dark and gloomy as the inside decorations. Her tongue clicked in her mouth, as if she was only just considering something. “ _Why_ did my father attack you?”

Jack’s mind went to the magic, to the shackles which had shattered right in front of him; the light gleaming even as Jack’s eyesight faded, Loki’s hand tightly clenched around the back of his neck to hold him in place.

Loki had been so much larger than him, so much stronger, whilst Jack was bleeding out onto the forest floor, feeble and dizzy. They shouldn’t have been in that position, and simply the thought of it made Jack want to get angry, or to sob, or to puke. Loki was his _father_ , a man Jack remembered as protective and caring and sometimes a little scary, but wasn’t any parent? That Loki had attacked him so brutally, therefore, made Jack feel nauseous all over again.

But Hel didn’t know that, and she didn’t know that Jack had, apparently, still had Loki’s magic within him. Jack assumed it was present at all due to his leg – the ‘miracle of God’ which wasn’t so much of a mystery since he found out who and what Loki truly was. Loki, who had ripped that out of him without even a notion of care. Jack looked down to his bare feet mindlessly, twiddling his toes, glad to see his body was still functioning as before, but really it was a distraction to avoid answering Hel.

Hel, who was the daughter of Loki.

Hel, who was Jack’s sister.

Hel, who was intimidating and striking and dangerous. It was of no surprise Jack was keeping quiet, when she looked so much like their father.

“Are you the one who found my brother?” She suddenly interrupted the silence, her voice a lot calmer than before.

“How-“ He stopped, gaping at the woman who was now pinning him with her ethereal eyes. “Who told you?”

“Someone who has been keeping an eye on this situation for all the wrong reasons.” She answered, a bit harsher than before, but her tone was not intended for Jack. Instead, everything about her posture, her face and her manner rounded out, softened at the edges, making her seem more like the Loki of old than the stern, shadowed menace lurking in the magicless forest.

“Thank you.” She suddenly said, and Jack almost recoiled at the sound of it. He sent her an incredulous look which she read and interpreted without missing a beat. Instantly, for his sake, she elaborated. “My gratitude goes to you for finding my brother. Even if my father has overlooked this kindness, I shall not.”

Her gaze was dense with understanding and truth, and though Jack still felt uneasy in her presence, she suddenly seemed so much more approachable.

He nodded shortly, trying to sit up again. Hel held up a hand to stop him, however, and though she didn’t physically touch him, he felt a hand on his shoulder pushing him firmly back down onto the pillows.

“There is something more I would ask of you, Mr. Frost.” She said, using his name carefully this time, pointedly, and Jack got a sinking suspicion she knew more than she let on.

“Sure.” He replied, because she was going to ask anyway. Better he feel as if he had some amount of control here, even when he knew how powerless he really was.

“It is not a lot,” she said, meaning the opposite. However, Jack knew there was no way he was going to get away with rejecting her now, especially since, as far as he was concerned, she had probably saved his life. “All I ask is simply that you show me where my brother was held. Also, I would be most indebted to you if you were capable of finding him once more. You will help me with this, won’t you? Family means a great deal to me, and I would hate for even _one_ member to not help each other.”

Oh, she knew. Jack knew that she knew. Jack could tell by the sneaky little gleam in her eye and the slither of a smile on her face. She was devious, she was clever, and she was aware that if Jack had gone to find Fenrir once, he wasn’t going to ignore the call of family duty a second time, either.

“He’s gone? How did he get out of those chains?” Which were more important questions. Hel, for all her cleverness, did not have an answer. She echoed his blasé body-language of before, shrugging with her white hands and long nails, somehow making the gesture graceful even when it was on the verge of mocking. Her revenge for his omission of truth, it seemed, was to subtly belittle him for it. How... sibling-like of her.

“That is a question I would like you to answer, Mr. Frost. Or may I call you Jack?”

“Jack’s fine.”

“I assume you’ll accept my mission, then?”

“Well, who am I to deny to a friend in need?”

“Fenrir is your friend?”

“We were communicating,” Jack admitted, sitting up now without a hand pushing him back. “I wouldn’t say we’re BFFs, but you never know what the future will bring.”

“Then my recruiting you was the perfect choice. He may be willing to talk to you now he is free.”

“Dunno about that,” Jack admitted, thinking back to the terrifying visage of the wolf in the cave, yellow eyes gleaming amid the darkened walls, shining like a beacon, the light at the end of a tunnel; one which led straight to hell. He remembered that suspicious look, the fact Fenrir was not willing to trust him about their shared parentage, not willing to hope for the best on faith. Pretty much precisely what he was doing with Hel here – a thought which stopped Jack short. “He had a sword in his mouth,” he continued on, mind working automatically without any real cognitive process. “It might be difficult for him to talk at all.”

“Perhaps.” Hel agreed, also standing, towering far, far over Jack as she straightened. The members of this family were really much too large, in Jack’s opinion. He’d always wanted to be tall and had definitely been catching up with his father, but then... well, then he’d stopped growing pretty suddenly. “I’m sure I can rely on you to try, however, Jack.”

“Sure thing, ma’am.” He returned with a salute, before glancing to the door. “Hey, how am I actually getting out of here? I’m guessing we’re on your realm and not back where I was before.”

“Vanaheim. Is that where you wish to be?”

“Well, unless Fenrir’s got a better trick than I have about world-hopping, then there’s no better place to start looking.”

“So he was on Vanaheim all these years?” She replied distantly.

Jack nodded, feeling a little sorry for the wretched face Hel had about her as she contemplated the time she and her brother had spent apart. Well, he was going to be on one of the realms somewhere. It sucked that they hadn’t found him before, but from what he could gather from the way Loki reacted, it was significantly more difficult for Loki and Hel to find the wolf than it had been for Jack. There was probably sorcery involved. Everything seemed to come down to a series of severe magical screw-ups with this lot. Even Jack’s latest personal tragedy was a show of _stealing magic from a defenceless ghost 101, with Loki Odinson._ Not that he was angry or anything.

Now that Jack had been forced to turn his mind to it, he couldn’t push it away. He was trying not to reel in front of Hel, and honestly her presence was all that was keeping him calm. As soon as he was alone he was pretty sure he was going to find somewhere quiet and start screaming.

“I can send you back to Vanaheim. I have an errand to run there, myself. Come.” She beckoned him forward and took his hands in hers. Jack noticed with some surprise how alike their skin tones were. Both were the wrong shade of death. Shining and beautiful, perhaps, but nothing anyone could mistake for living. Hel was a god of the underworld, Jack recalled from his studies, and if this was her world in which they stood, then this was where people came once they’d said goodbye to life. Jack was reminded sharply that if he had actually died that day on the ice, properly, without the moon’s revival, here was where he probably would have wound up.

“Do you go by the name Jackson at all?” She suddenly questioned, forgoing all attempts at subtly in the name of curiosity. She knew that he was Loki’s youngest son, but she was still trying to get him to admit it. Well, he was in no mood to play ball. 

“No.” Jack returned. It was true, anyway. No one called him Jackson, not even his grandfather with whom he shared the name – he tended to referred to him as ‘Junior’. Loki had always hated that. He had grown up as ‘Jack’, and was only ever ‘Jackson’ when he was in serious trouble. “We going? Come on, I thought you wanted to find your brother. Hey, wait,” An epiphany came to him, as another name of another sibling started to play across his mind. “What about the serpent, Jor- Jurmungan-something. Do you know where he is?”

“He is somewhere on Midgard, which is significantly easier to search. You focus on Fenrir, Jack Frost, and I shall find Jörmungandr.”

“I just think it might be easier if I went back to Earth instead. I mean, it _is_ my world, and I know it pretty well-“ Not that he had ulterior motives to go home or anything. It wasn’t like he needed to make sure Sandy wasn’t freaking out, or that he wanted to play with Jamie, or how he’d like to see Baby Tooth, or bug Bunny, or distract Tooth. He knew he hadn’t been gone for that long, but it felt like an eternity since he had seen them all. Even Sandy, who he was pretty sure he only saw yesterday.

“Jack,” Hel interrupted his musings, glaring at him fiercely. It was an authoritative face that Jack was surprised to find himself willing to listen to. “In over one thousand years all who have looked for Fenrir have failed to find him, yet you find him as soon as you deign put your mind to it? How long, pray tell, did it honestly take you?”

Jack shrugged, thinking about his library trip, his theft from Santa Clause, and then his search across the too hot, magic-bare island. “I dunno, half a day?”

She sent him a very eloquent expression. It said things that words could not even begin to enunciate.

“Alright, point. Fine, don’t worry. I’ll find Fenrir for you, scout’s honour.”

The world twisted suddenly, the greys and blacks of their surroundings swirling and merging, making Jack’s eyes cross. It was like being on a rollercoaster stuck in an eternal vertical loop, spinning over and over and over again.

When Hel finally let him go he stumbled into a startlingly colourful world, shocked, for a moment, at the bright hues of his surroundings. He took a moment to overcome his dizzy head and try not to throw up whatever he had left in his body to spew, before glancing around dazedly. He was, he noticed, exactly where he had been when he was attacked. There was still his blood on the floor. He pointedly ignored it, snatching his staff from Hel’s hand when she held it out and pointing her in the right direction.

“The island is in that lake. Oh, and how am I meant to get hold of you when I find him?”

“Do not worry, Jack.” She said taking his hand in one of hers for a brief moment and startling him with a spark of magic.

“Ow!” He said, recoiling, whilst she smiled patronisingly.

“I’ll find you when you find him.”

“You’re as bad as your father,” he said unthinkingly, mind going back to when he was a child and Loki had sent Emma out after Jack to act as his spy. Jack had caught her out – she had been too young and clumsy at the time for espionage, but that was the point. Loki wanted Jack to know he had his eye on his son, whether that was to act as a warning when Jack was about to do something ill-advised, or a comfort for when he got into trouble. Either way, it worked like a charm. This was eerily similar.

She turned from him then, a clear dismissal if Jack had ever seen one, so Jack returned the gesture, heading in the opposite direction – hopefully towards somewhere where there was magic for him to utilise. He needed the wind on his side if he was going to go on an epic search for his newly-freed brother in the name of his new-found sister.

He took a few steps forward before stumbling back, a startled cry escaping him when Hel suddenly appeared before him. She grabbed his arm again and tugged him close to her, somehow intimidating but not quite approaching threatening.

“I must ask,” she whispered into the silent air. “How _did_ you find my brother?”

Jack shrugged, because there really wasn’t anything to say. He had a name of the right place, he had some useful tools, and he didn’t have any hocus-pocus keeping him away. “Just lucky, I guess.”

She nodded, sighing once before pushing him from her and walking once more towards the lake. This time, she looked like she had no intention of stopping Jack’s determined march out of the woods. Instead, in place of a goodbye, she called out over her shoulder: “Then I pray that you be lucky again, lest Loki find him first. Always remember to be wary of our father, Jack. But then,” she paused briefly, turning her body to meet his eyes with a small smile playing upon her lips. “I don’t need to warn _you_ of that.”

That went without saying, he considered, as she watched her disappear into the trees. He was standing by the mud, made soggy by his own blood, placed there at the hands of someone he thought he could trust. But he’d finally got the message, and perhaps Frigga and Thor and the guardians could sleep well at night now, because Jack _Frost_ didn’t need any more cautions telling him how dangerous Loki Odinson was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep on coming back to Hel. She’s playing a bigger role than I intended. Oops.  
> Sorry if this isn’t as great as I wanted it to be, nor particularly explanatory. This chapter was really hard. Also, I’m not explaining anything yet. Not for a long while, and even then not about relevant things. I’m in the annoying place where I’m still building up to stuff, but I’m not quite there yet. Ugh. Anyway, Jack’s back! Yey! And, look, he’s become Hel’s little Hufflepuff :D  
> Hope you liked it.


	14. Wait For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took such a long time. I had no motivation.  
> This is a little shorter than usual, but that's because it was difficult to write. I'm just glad it's over.

Many believed that Frigga, Queen of Asgard, was not one with a temper. This was due to centuries of watching over her husband, and then her sons, and righting their mistakes. She never once raised her voice, nor allowed her anger to get the best of her for all their faults and disasters. She was known for her patience, her understanding, her love. She was one someone went to when they needed a helping hand before a scolding.

She never became furious at Thor when his brawn took over his brains, such as very recently when he and his friends had travelled into Jötunheim and started the war between the two realms anew. Odin had screamed at him, banished him, taught him a lesson. Frigga had only been disappointed.

The same truths extended to Loki. When he became mischievous in his youth, Frigga only tutted. When he decided to stay on Earth with his troll, Frigga had not become upset. When he continued to abandon his station to linger amongst the humans, Frigga had not judged him.

Even when he had returned home after dropping through the void, disappearing from all sights just to return to them changed, Frigga had only wished to embrace him. She never yelled, never cried, only ever remained of a level-head.

So, her family and friends and subjects often forgot that she could become incensed. With enough time, they started to believe they could get away with anything, be forgiven of everything, so long as it was Frigga who found out first.

Even Odin, her own husband, began to think this after too long without her suggesting otherwise. He would stop consulting her first, cease ensuring she agreed with him, simply because he assumed she would not punish him for his actions.

He was wrong.

Frigga had found out about his secret meeting as easily as Thor had, and like Thor she knew immediately why the two of them hadn't been consulted. The meeting had been called to speak of Loki, to hatch plots that related to her son and would end in the worst. Frigga would not have stood for it had she known prior, or been amongst them in the hall. Or, at least, she had thought it was about Loki. The truth, when she confronted Odin as soon as he had stepped out from the darkened chambers with a hundred sorcerers at his back, had been much worse.

"You did _what_?" She asked, as soon as she stepped into a private corner of the palace, spinning on her heels to face her husband. He looked taken aback at the sudden fury about her, along with the way she obviously clenched her fists at her side as a means of controlling herself. "You severed their magic?"

"It was the only way."

"No," she said sharply, glaring. "It was the _simplest_ way. Did you not think things through carefully? The trials they will have to face now they are defenceless? What of Fenrir and that sword, or Jörmungandr, swimming at the bottom of the ocean. They may be dead now!"

"Better them than us." Odin argued, waving a hand to the ceiling to indicate more than just himself and his wife. He was not talking of only the two of them, but instead the entirety of Asgard. Every living creature in the nine realms, even. "Without their magic, they are no more a danger to us than a mortal."

"Perhaps, but have you considered what you've done? That perhaps _this_ is what will enrage Loki? The prophecy speaks of the serpent and the wolf rising with him, but it also talks of two children killed beforehand! That has not happened so far, so perhaps this is it. What if they are dead, and _you_ are the cause of Ragnarök?"

He had glowered at her, enraged by the thought, but sent a troop of Týr's to check in on Fenrir to ensure that she was speaking falsehoods.

"I cannot trace where Jörmungandr will be, but Thor has promised to look for him when he is in Midgard." Odin promised, though it did little to alleviate her rage.

In truth, nothing he had done since he went into those locked chambers could shift the anger from Frigga's mind. She could put on a front, act the perfect wife and queen in front of guests and subjects, but Odin knew it was all a lie. He may have been working hard to amend his past wrongs, but without a body to be found on Midgard and with no word from Týr's soldier, he was yet to accept that he was incorrect in his judgement.

"If we can't find them, nor can Loki." Odin argued, but Frigga disagreed. Especially since she had felt the precise moment when Loki's bonds had crumbled.

She hadn't figured out how he'd done it, but the instant her magic had fallen away she was aware he was free. It had stung, physically - pain piercing under her wrists and crawling through her, sizzling her as it burned through her son.

It had been her duty to tell Odin. Upon the news that Loki had found a way to replenish his magic, though they were not completely clear _how_ , the king of Asgard only nodded, seemingly justified in the knowledge he had done what he could. Neither of them voiced the fact that now may be the time when the end drew ever nearer.

Odin was away with his sorcerers once more, trying to use magic to track down Loki since no one had heard word about where he had disappeared to. Meanwhile, since Thor had returned to Midgard to await his brother there, Frigga found herself in the throne room, dealing with matters in her husband's absence.

At the moment it was Týr who was in front of her, reporting back all he knew regarding the status of Fenrir.

"Leiptr has yet to return home," Týr said worriedly, his face expressing precisely what he believed that to mean. "I request to leave and recover him."

She nodded, sighing, but he turned to go to Island Lyngvi she called him back to the steps.

"How did he kill the warrior if he was bound?"

Týr knew Fenrir better than anyone else, including, tragically, Loki. If one was to predict Fenrir's movements, or evaluate the extent of his abilities, Týr's opinions would be the most accurate. He knew this as well, therefore it was with confidence that he spoke: "He could not have killed him in his chains. It is impossible."

"So Leiptr is alive?"

"No, your highness. It is unlikely he will have lingered so long. It is no place for a man such as he. It is no place for _any_ man."

"Then, if he is not already home he must be dead?"

Týr nodded, and came up with two explanations when prompted to elucidate the truth behind what must have happened on the island.

"It is possible Loki found Leiptr. If he had recovered his full strength, perhaps he was motivated enough to break the protection spells and finally rediscover his son. If Leiptr had arrived at the wrong time, I have no doubt Loki would have had little trouble dispatching him."

Frigga thought back to Loki's own jailbreak. She could remember with great clarity the way her son had been capable of cutting through the guards with ease and frightful agility, using their own underestimations of his strength against them. He slashed them down, kept them on the floor once they had fallen, and all of it with barely a breath wasted. Everyone in Asgard always assumed his skills in fighting were limited to long-distance attacks with knives, spears or magic. The truth was that, if such a thing had been true, Loki would have been dead a hundred times over in his time.

But of course, the people were also used to the idea of Thor the hero. If Thor had been present at any point in Loki's history - which, of course, he always was - it must have been _his_ skills which kept Loki alive. And, certainly, in many cases that was likely factual. However, in many more the truth presented a scenario of its exact opposite.

If Loki had been capable of defeating seven soldiers without magic, one single warrior was not even a blip on his conscious, and certainly no strain to him with his powers returned. If Leiptr _had_ come into contact with Loki then Leiptr was a lost cause.

But Týr had a second suggestion.

"The chains were designed for a wolf," he said, looking to Frigga imploringly, asking her to understand without him having to elaborate upon a terrible reality.

"Yes?" She urged him to continue, impatient with their conversation but not allowing it to show. It was a sore spot; it upset her to talk about her son and grandchild in such a tense, detached manner.

"Fenrir's magic was taken from him, rendering him theoretically harmless. Well, it has always been a possibility that he was a shapeshifter, as his mother was. As his father still is."

It was then that Frigga fully comprehended his deeper meaning, coming to her in the bright and sudden flash of an epiphany. Perhaps, she realised now, it was possible that Fenrir was not a wolf at all.

"You believe he shifted into his natural form once he was unable to keep hold of his magic? To maintain the illusion?"

Týr nodded. "He may be smaller than he appeared to be - more like," he hesitated, and it was obvious why. If Fenrir were a person like the Æsir or the Vanir, then there had been a great injustice done unto him. They had only locked him away out of fear of his size, of his strength. Had he been shaped otherwise then a tall stature would have been congratulated, celebrated. Admired amongst the people of Asgard.

And then she thought to Loki's other children. What of Jörmungandr, destined to live trapped beneath the waves? She was worried enough for him as a snake - without his magic, would he be capable of breathing underwater? Now her fears were even more legitimate, since, as a person with too many limbs, would he have retained the capabilities to even swim? Would he have made it to the surface in time? Was Thor looking for the wrong sort of corpse?

And Hel. What of Hel? Her true form, of the three of them, was the most monstrous. She was also the youngest. She had been only a baby when they found her, distressed and tortured, and this had proved to be the defining point in Loki's life. Had she been healthy, perhaps they would have allowed him greater access to his brood. However, Odin had taken the little girl as a sign they were unfit parents - Loki too young, Angrboða too cruel, and they had been punished appropriately. What if, like Fenrir and Jörmungandr, that was a front as well? But who would put a mask such as that upon a mere child, and for what reason? Any why would Loki not speak up about it?

Frigga closed her eyes, resisted the urge to rock her head in her hands, not wanting to think of whether this was yet another wrong they had inflicted upon their son. Loki, whose only crime had, potentially, merely been to protect his children.

She restrained herself, however, because there was no sense lingering on the past. Now they were too far gone to apologise for it. Loki would never begin to accept their regret, not now, not after so long. It would prove to merely be one more thing to use against them, another brick to use to build up his anger and unleash it down upon his enemies; his once loved ones. Loki had gone past the point where he could be talked down and back into the arms of his family.

He'd been pushed too far.

This was exactly what Frigga had been so angry at Odin about. Should her son find his children dead, well... she didn't know what he'd do. At such a loss, she immediately considered what would she do if she discovered _her_ children dead. Especially if she knew who was to blame.

That was an easier question, with a much more obvious answer: She'd raze the worlds to the ground.

\--

The Guardians had all been gathered again, and they were once more at the North Pole, much to the Yeti’s distress. But, and North couldn’t believe he was thinking it, they all had more important things to focus on than Christmas. The Yetis could handle the strain - they always did and they were more than capable. North, however, had his family to think about.

“We have to get him back.” He said, pacing the room and avoiding Tooth as she flitted about anxiously, Baby Tooth clinging to her in distress.

“How?” She was asking, glancing over to Bunny and Sandy who were gathered around the table. Bunny was staring at his boomerang, obvious thoughts of violence wanting to lash out with his weapons, whilst Sandy was worriedly tapping at the wood. “What are we going to do?”

“What are our options?” Bunny spoke up suddenly, his thoughts finally solidifying into something other than anger and heartbreak. “He’s on Vanaheim, and we can get there, right? With the use of your snow globes, we can get anywhere. Just point it Jack’s way.”

“We don’t know if he’s on Vanaheim,” North pointed out reasonably, and Sandy agreed. He said something rapidly in pictures towards Bunnymund, who sighed.

“What sort of magic did you feel?”

Sandy shrugged, no more an expert on foreign magic than any of them were, but he was able to communicate that it was not of this world, along with that it seemed to disappear very suddenly - possibly some form of teleportation not unlike the globes.

"We're not magicians," Tooth protested when it looked as if Bunny was prepared to go straight to where Jack had last been seen and start throwing things at people until they started giving him answers. "We can't even comprehend what people like Loki can do. _Especially_ Loki."

She had a point. The problem was that the only conclusion they could draw from that was not a pleasant one.

"We can't just give up." Bunny snapped, Baby Tooth flitting away from her employer in support of the Easter Bunny, making outraged sounds. Tooth cupper her little fairy in her hands, stroked her wings gently and attempting to soothe her.

"But what can we do?" She asked the room quietly, nothing more than a whisper into the silence, and it was returned with shaking heads and defeated slumps.

“There’s nothing we can do.” North eventually spoke.

Bunny snapped, “Do not say that.” to which Santa returned:

"He's in the hands of _Loki_. Loki, who has apparently gone mad!"

"He's his son." Tooth tried, but by this point they'd all heard the story that Sandman had to tell. They knew precisely how much affection Jack's father had for his son at this moment. Loki was beyond a doubt a monster.

"Can't we go talk to someone in Asgard?" She amended, holding her fairy close and refusing to linger on the thought of where Jack may be right now. The answer was terrifying, in that they simply did not know and had no way to so much as guess.

"I went," North answered, shaking his head. "There has been too much going on as of late. All I discovered is that Loki has escaped."

"And he found Jack." Bunny said, slamming his fist into the table and making his fellow guardians jump. "He found Jack, and he attacked him."

"He's okay, right? I mean, he can't die again, can he?"

And there was the question none of them had truly wished to ask out loud. Perhaps on Earth, where the moon watched over him and the guardians were on hand and he had magic to manipulate, _maybe_ then Jack would have been capable of surviving a serious wound. On a distant realm, be he alone and lost, or worse, with Loki, his odds did not look quite so good.

They just had to hope the rules of being a spirit applied to Jack. Unfortunately, with the extent of the moon's powers, it was hard to determine the truth behind where Jack was alive or dead.

"He'll come back," North eventually murmured, because that's all they had left to cling onto now. All they could do was believe, and perhaps with the strength of their faith, Jack would find his way home.

\--

Hel moved through the sands of the island quietly, allowing the slight winds and the call of the birds from the trees to cover each footstep, mask her presence on this land.

She shouldn’t be here.

It wasn’t just the fact there was no seiðr in the air – seiðr meant very little to a talented sorceress like herself. It wasn’t even that she could not feel the presence of death anywhere close by, including even the animals. Rather, it was the scent in the breeze – a sharp tang of that which wished her away.

She perhaps would have left, if not for the lingering and weighty coat of Fenrir’s magic tainting the atmosphere. She followed the trace across the beach and through the writhing forest, in which the birds stopped to watch her pass them by. Their eyes were trained upon her, dangerously aware, whilst their little voices chirped, bounding across the trees and away into the ether.

She turned her own green eyes to them suspiciously, and though they did not immediately fall silent, the forest suddenly felt heavier.

“Are you speaking, little birds?” She hissed. Her voice was more than simply a sound: it was a threat layered with sweet but false coatings of calm, to which the creatures reacted by ruffling their feathers and shifting where they perched. They looked bigger now, scarier, but Hel was the Queen of Niflheim. She would not be cowed by a few animals with their ancient gazes and secret trilled messages.

“Do not keep watch over me, birds. I know not to whom your follow, nor where you report home. Your communications may be a mystery to me, but I will find out should you not cease immediately." If nothing else, she considered, the threat may find its way to the other end. Perhaps they would be wary of her, then. She had enough on her plate as it was than to deal with someone who had found their way around the blindness the seiðrless air caused.

The trail of her brother lead her down steep rocky lands and into a hidden cove, dark and damp and unpleasant. She grimaced at the _drip, drip_ of water from above, along with the stillness of what once was a stream. It had carved away a path in the rock, shallow but noticeable, and Hel was well read enough to know what it was.

Here was where they held her brother. Here was the cave that he had been trapped for all these years. It seemed unbelievable - it was so close to where they all lived. His absence had been so complete, she sometimes suspected he was not on one of the nine realms at all. Rather, the yawning lack of him suggested him in too much of a mysterious place to ever reach him.

Yet, here she was, and here he had been.

However, none of these things had been what she had first noticed upon arrival. A more intriguing sight was the man resting at the wall of the cave, eyes closed but shoulders raised, looking more than ready to leap up and lash out at the first hint of a threat. Here was a face Hel was more than intimately familiar with.

“Father.” She greeted, and Loki peeked an eye open, running his gaze over her briefly, as if cataloguing every detail, simply to remind himself of who she was. Hel saw such an expression upon spirits when they were reunited in her lands – people who had spent too long apart to truly recognise each other instantly. This was more worrying, however, since Loki had come to see her only days before.

It was in this appearance, and the one which followed in which he seemed to struggle to fit the pieces together, that Hel saw, as Jack Frost had done, how much his mental state had so rapidly degraded. He had let himself loose, dismissing things like pesky emotions and encouraging his more expressive memories to flee with them. It was a look which immediately had Hel's brain alight with questions, such as: if that was so and his mind was slipping away, what was he doing here in the first place?

Here, surely, was only an appropriate spot if he were looking for Fenrir – for his son. Otherwise, it was just an island with chattering birds. Isolated, certainly, but not unreachable. Not definitively safe.

Not that Loki needed such a place anymore, now that he had his magic back. He was brimming with it, burning under its influence, spitting up power as it once again flowed freely through his veins, down his limbs, to his fingers, across his mind. With so much power at his command once more he was as safe in broad daylight as he was huddled away in this cave.

“Hel.” He finally said slowly, picking himself up gracefully to stand before her. She glanced around the cavern, dimly lit by the small, flickering fire, and observed the chains, the blood, the body.

“A warrior of Asgard?” She asked upon seeing his uniform, and Loki nodded.

“A man named Leiptr. He was trained by Týr himself. _I_ did not kill him.” He replied to her accusing glance.

“Fenrir?”

“Most certainly, but see how the neck is twisted. He was not torn apart by a wolf.”

Hel did look, keeping her father within her eyeline as she moved to study the body more closely.

“His neck was broken by hands.” She realised, looking back to the chains which were still fastened securely – they had not been torn off, but rather shrugged away. “He shifted his form. I did not believe him capable of it,” she marvelled. “I was told the chains kept his magic bound.”

“There is no trail away from here,” Loki replied absently, looking to the mouth of the cave with no inflection in his voice. This was not deliberate, nor done to cover any supposed weakness. Rather, it was genuine. There was no emotion connecting him to his words at all. “There is no evidence he changed by magic.”

“What does that mean?” She had a few ideas, but truthfully she’d rather not consider them.

“It means he’s worthless to me now.” Loki looked to her with narrow eyes, critically glancing across her face. She knew her expression to be as blank as his, but Loki had always been able to read past her masks. That, at least, had not changed. “Are _you_ worthless to me, Hel?”

Hel stood from her crouched position over the body, lifting her skirts to step over it carefully and stare solidly upon her father’s lithe form. He was standing tall, his height impossibly imposing even though they were of similar stature. Hel tried to hide how young she felt, looking upon him like this, and how much it reminded her of when she was but a child, how he would come to see her as often as he could. She always remembered his height first – could recall looking up all the way to the top of her father, just to see a beautiful smile at the end of the long journey north. He was not smiling now.

She answered, “I am only as worthless to you as you are to me.”

His face remained steady for a long moment, evaluating these words carefully in his head, before slowly baring his teeth.

“Your brother has no magic, Hel. They have torn it from him, and he must now rely on his own bodily strength to see him through. He finally has his wish – he is a warrior as those on Asgard, who so foolishly pride themselves on muscles before mind. I have enough of people like that that I can control, and I do not need another one to worry about. They are reckless and pigheaded, and are the first to get themselves killed. He is no better than they are, and no more capable of surviving his carelessness than a mortal would be.”

“So you are willing to throw him away?” She snapped back, stepping towards the mouth of the cave in a clear indication that she wished nothing more than to be apart from his company. “He is your _son_.”

“I do not have a _son_.” He growled, crowding her quickly before she had a chance to get further away and cupping her face in his hands. Despite how gentle he was, despite thumb he rubbed against her cheekbone, there was not a glimmer of love about his face, nor a single recognisable feature that could identify him as her father. “If this has happened to Fenrir, it will have also happen to Jörmungandr.” He clarified.

“There is Sleipnir.” She reminded him, struggling against his strong hold. He did not let her up.

“Odin’s _pet_.” He snarled, hands tightening briefly around her jaw and making her squirm all the more. Though it was only an instant, it was as frightening a warning as if he had held a knife to her throat.

“Jackson.” She tried next, attempting with her list of children to get through to him, to tap into his treasured memories of the past. However, as soon as she said it she recalled Jack lying her palace, his white fingers lingering over a patch of blood. Or in the forest, standing by the spot where their father had so brutally attacked him.

“Jackson?” Loki’s eyes flickered away from hers for a brief second, not long enough for her to consider any form of action against him, but just time enough to hope that perhaps _Jackson_ had been the magic word. But then his look returned to her, eyes darker than before, and Hel realised, terrified, that it had been only another trigger.

“ _Dead_.” He spat. “He _died_ , Hel. I have _no son_.”

“Did you kill him?” She sneered, wondering if he knew Jack still lived, and in reaction he grabbed her hair and pulled back her head, a furious cry escaping his lips.

“Why do you remain here?” She asked through clenched teeth, unable to meet her father’s gaze at the angle he held her by. However, despite her weak position, she felt stronger now than she ever had before in his presence. Prior to now he had been her father, strong and brave and noble. He made her feel like a little girl, weak and dependent upon him - he was her hero, the one person she could never defeat. Yet now, here they were: Loki was no more than another arrogant sorcerer, and she had dealt with his kind before.

“I wished to see you.” He cooed gently, the false sound of a parent’s concern making her want to thrash and scream and lash out, but she did not allow herself to act upon her nostalgic sentiments. She was going to handle this as impersonally as she would any other being. “I knew you’d eventually find your way here, away from your minions," he continued. "Far from your safe little realm. Perhaps here you would see what they did to your brother.”

“I saw what _you_ did to my brother,” Hel hissed in return, to which Loki punishingly tugged harder at the hair near her scalp.

“You know _nothing_ , child. You are as blind as _he_ is. As blind as they all are.”

“Am I worthless to you too, Loki?” She breathed, catching his blazing eyes with her own. “You would abandon us so carelessly. How typical. This is a bad habit of yours.”

“I have deserted no one. ‘Tis you, girl, who has forsaken _me_.” He threw her to the side roughly, catching some of her long hair in his fingers and tugging them from their roots. He shook them off with disgust, twisting his back to her as she pulled herself up.

“You should not dare turn your back on me!” She shot a spell towards him, a mere bid for attention, but one that was designed to hurt once it hit and spread across the breadth of his body. But it didn’t hurt him. It didn’t even hit him.Loki had disappeared.

It as if he had never been there, his absence not punctuated by nary a scuff of a boot on the floor or a fingerprint on the wall. He was gone again, leaving Hel seething into a blood-filled cave on her own.

Worthless, he thought his own children to be? Well, Hel would prove him wrong. Jack was finding Fenrir now, and she would rediscover Jörmungandr. Together, they would stop whatever crazy scheme their father was concocting, and they would prove to him, prove to the _universe_ just how _worthless_ they all were.

They’d see the might of her family, of this she was certain as she gathered up her magic and transported herself to Midgard. They’d _all_ see. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa there, Hel. You're sounding a little more like your dad every day.  
> Anyway, my computer is back! Yey! Again, sorry this took a little longer than usual. I’ve been stealing other people’s computers and not really getting very far with the whole writing thing. But it’s done now, thankfully. The next few chapters are going to be more fun.


	15. Road to Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Thanks for your continued attention and your comments. They're really super helpful to see where I've left gaps and stuff in my story, so please never stop. They make me so happy.

Fenrir woke up to the darkness, to silence. He tried to stand up, to shake the sleep from him, but immediately toppled from his tentative perch when he realised his legs were not bound as he was used to.

They lashed out when he habitually tried to strain against Gleipnir, but, unrestrained, his limbs went further than he intended to, throwing him from what seemed to be a bed.

He looked at his hands, remembering very suddenly that they were _supposed_ to look that gangly, that's what Æsir paws were like, before running his palms across the sheets with a small, curious smile. Someone had been incredibly graceful to give him a bed to lie on. He hadn't had such a soft place to rest for a thousand years. He had almost forgotten what comfort truly was.

The second thing he realised was that he was wearing clothes. They were... strange. Uncomfortable. He didn't think he liked them. At the same time, whilst in another's home, he knew it wasn't proper to strip for one's own comfort. There were people living here who had likely seen enough of his bare flesh to last them all a lifetime.

He stood slowly, not trusting his legs even after he had walked miles upon them to get here, eying them warily until he was sure they would remain stable. Without light it was difficult to navigate the room, and he repeatedly bumped into things, such as the end of the bed, or a table. He was quick to discover why it was so dark. When he reached a window and threw back the curtains, just to be met with the same heavy cloak of black. It was night time, he realised, and the clouds had covered the skies. There would be no illumination granted from the moon.

He looked down to the streets, empty and shadowed, almost impossible to make out under such a heavy drape of gloom, but Fenrir had been trapped in the dark too long to not be capable of looking deeper into the shady town. It was small, conventional, functioning. Built to last, sturdy and practical. Fenrir approved.

His window looked out into the centre of the town, and the square lining the middle of it was only a few rooftops over. There were animals there, fenced off and quiet - sheep snoozing and horses hidden away in the nearby stables. There was no movement to be seen anywhere. Fenrir liked that as well.

When he had arrived he recalled the bustle the town was - awash with movement and shouting and people and life. Whilst he had welcomed that then, since he was bleeding and weary and faint, in need of their help, now he worried for what he would have done had he woken to such calamity. He had not been in his right mind initially, after all. He had first assumed he was still in that dank cave, and he likely would continue with that habit for years to come.

He lay fingers upon his wrists absently at the memory of the cave, before looking down to study the strange texture his digits had met. He observed the way someone had very carefully, but very securely wrapped the wounds the chain had caused with cleansing bandages, made heavy with a sicky scent by a very basic form of spell. If they had a true sorcerer here, or if Fenrir had his own magic, he would have simply healed the cuts completely. As it was, it was likely that this village only had access to a meagre level of seiðr. In many ways, it was a blessing. Fenrir knew he still had traces of his own magical ability about himself, but no one needed to know that lest they start tracing connections when he didn't want them to.

He contemplated the drop from the window, considering if he could jump that far without making any noise. As a wolf it would have been simple, but in this strange body, tall and broad and almost too big for the room, he wasn't confident enough in his own abilities.

Nor was he keen on the idea of waking villagers in the middle of the night. People this close to holy spots had such strange, paranoid beliefs. Not that they shouldn't, they were the ones with the most right to them. And there was always birds. They could see things. They whispered things in the night.

He looked out to the woods, on the edge of the town, and narrowed his eyes, wondering if anything had followed him here. Without his magic heightening his aura, and outside of his preferred form with sharp senses, Fenrir couldn't immediately tell if there was anything out there or not. Nevertheless, that didn't mean he was safe.

He wasted the next few hours frozen in the same position, leaning against the sill of the window and staring into the darkness. He was glad when the sun started to shine, if only because he could better see the creatures lurking outside of his loaned room, if there even were any. His attentions were torn away, however, when a young Vanr suddenly burst out from a door, running into the streets with another at her tail. The children were awaking, the adults slowly following, and emerging to greet the day with the rising of the golden suns.

A few looked up to stare at him for merely moments, and he knew he was only catching their attention because he was watching them with such avidity, relentlessly. They were getting suspicious of it, so he turned his gaze back to the trees, dismayed when he continued to see nothing.

He wasn't interrupted again for a long time. By then, the morning was completely upon the town, the rays of the sun starting to be blocked out as dense clouds moved in, threatening rain. It was that part of the year, when all the seeds had been sown and they were waiting for the right time of season to nurture them. In a few months, they would be ready to eat, or sell, or hoard.

By midmorning, Fenrir's body had completely locked itself down. It was a sensation he was used to - picking one posture from the limited range usually available to him and sticking to it until he collapsed and slept. There was little else to do in the cave, after all, what with his ankles fastened tight. He knew he could move freely now, even leave the room completely, but it seemed like a lot of effort for very little outcome. He didn't know this place, didn't know these people, and he wasn't completely sure he wanted to, either. He had been so certain on the road here, blinded by dreams of company and a new life, a second start, somewhere to hide. Now, he realised, he might have deluded  himself. Who was going to help hide a man like him, strange looking and too large and seriously injured with no explanation why, against the might of Asgard when they came looking? And they _would_ come looking, especially now that Fenrir killed one of their guards.

The door burst open suddenly, surprising Fenrir and causing him to freeze - this was not a hard feat, since he was already stiff muscled and of blank-mind, due to spending hours staring out into the realm. It was the voice that accompanied the violent entrance which prompted a response from him.

"You're awake!"

Fenrir looked over to see a woman with a tray in her hand, smiling at him with unexpected kindness. Not that he should have assumed otherwise, since her family had likely been the one who had provided him with shelter for the night and a balm for his wounds.

He tried to answer her, half-forgotten phrases of their language coming back to him during the time he spent listening to the chatter outside, but he realised then that his mouth would not open. He lifted confused fingers to his jaw, just to see that half of his face was as securely wrapped as the rest of him. He likely hadn't noticed due to the fact he had not yet come to know the appropriate feel of this weird body.

"Don't even try, sir," the woman smiled, gesturing him over to the bed before grabbing his upper arm when he was too slow to comply. He dwarfed her completely, staring down at her head where it stopped long before his chin, but he didn't resist her when she pushed him down to sit next to her and her tray.

On top of it, he noted, was a bowl of broth and some fresh medical supplies. He stared at the thread and needle severely, and she tutted at him.

"You came to me in a terrible state, young man. I had to sew your face back together. That is why you're bandaged so tightly - even a tough creature such as yourself should wait to heal before attempting to talk through those wounds."

She started to unwrap his wrist, turning his hand over to inspect the full damage to his wrists before sighing deeply, pained. "You were held, weren't you?" At his careful nod, she scowled. "Whoever did this to you deserves what's coming to them. _How_ they did this to you is a question for another day."

She was referring to his strength, of course. She'd have to be blind to not see how easy it would be for him to toss a dozen people out of his path if caught in a combat situation. Unfortunately, the Æsir had been clever enough to deceive him, not challenge him to a fight. He wasn't an idiot, and he shouldn't have fallen for it, but his pride had a tendency to overrule his brain. His father had always tried to trick him out of the habit as a boy, but it hadn't worked. The lessons didn't stick; undermined by how Loki could be equally as arrogant as his son.

The woman, introducing herself as Unnr, carefully replaced each piece of gauze around his wrists and ankles, washing the blood away and bathing the cloth in the hot ointment on the tray before applying them to the clean skin. He recognised the potion - it was an easy recipe, derived of common herbs and a splatter of natural seiðr, often used in place of magic or healing stones. It soothed pain and encouraged the innate healing processes of the body, along with working to help restrain infection from setting in the open wounds. As long as he didn't agitate them, he would be fine.

"I'm the healer here," she said as she unwrapped his feet, where he realised he was bleeding. He hadn't noticed how terribly the pads had held up during his trek through the forest. "I know I'm not much to look at, but I can do a thing or two with potions, let me tell you." She cleaned them again, carefully and slowly, and set them down after doing all she could.

She then moved towards his face, and he reared back instinctively, not liking strangers so close to him. That, likely, was much to do with the fact the last time someone had been in such proximity they had inserted a sword between his jaws.

"Be still, boy," she said with a sharp tap to his shoulder, startling him further. "Do you want me to ruin your face?"

Fenrir, in all honesty, didn't much care. He didn't even know what he looked like, having never seen so much as a reflection in water of himself grown and person-like. He was going to hate it whether it was mutilated with scars or not. However, Unnr had an evil eye on her, and she set it upon him sternly. He figured that quiet obedience was the least he could do in exchange for her troubles.

She started to take away the bindings from his face, and allowed him a few moments to breath in the fresh air.

He could smell something from downstairs - the scent of cooking meat drafting through the floorboards, the open windows, alighting Fenrir's nostrils with a red-hot desire.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Unnr asked.

Fenrir hadn't before noticed his own pangs of hunger, how deep the need to eat coursed through him. He was much too used to going for months without so much as a scrap to swallow. He nodded in reply, not able to speak even now as she held his chin firmly to inspect the side of his face which had been slashed. In reply, she only sighed.

"You're going to have to give it another few days before you can move your mouth. You're likely to tear your stitches."

She ran a thumb across the side of his mouth, where the sword had caught upon its dislodging. He winced, that area particularly sore, and moved to replace her hand with his own. He realised it had torn his mouth partway up his cheek, before finally moving out and continuing on with a more shallow wound up to near his eye.

"There's a deep incision on the roof of your mouth that would be aggravated by foods," she warned him, batting his fingers away when he tried to probe for that as well. She scolded him. "Men and their insatiable curiosity. You'll get yourself killed doing that. You almost died from blood loss yesterday."

She began to rewrap the bandages after making them damp in the liquid, but he held a hand to his face to stop the motion.

"What is it? Do you not wish to heal?"

Fenrir contemplated how best to tell her that he cared little of what he looked like without actually speaking. He wasn't completely sure if he would be able to convey this sentiment in his broken attempts at their language, but concluded that he certainly wasn't going to approach success with only gestures. There was no harm in trying.

Except, apparently, there was. As soon as he opened his mouth she was brandishing a needle in his face. He blinked at her, taken aback, wondering when women had become so brash.

But then he recalled his own mother, memories faded over time with natural decay of mind and the constant stories from Týr speaking of only the gentleness of the women of Asgard, only their beauty and brains and fertility. In such pretty tales, Angrboða was almost demonised as a misnomer for womanliness - she had not been beautiful, nor even pretty. She was larger than Fenrir's father, both in height and breadth, stronger than him, and oftentimes neither feminine or masculine. With the fables, romanticised in the name of story-telling, Fenrir forgot that his mother had been fierce, protective, violent. She was not physically aggressive towards her family, of course, but she hunted with her bare hands, used her claws to deadly effect, built their house and farmed their land more than Loki ever did.

It made sense, of course. She was not a typical woman, not of the Æsir or the Vanir or the humans. She was a troll, a very rational and peaceful one, but a troll nonetheless. She had a temper which could match the wrath of Odin, according to Fenrir's father, and he would know better than most.

That was not to say that she could not be a mother, or a wife, or attempt to act the part of an acceptable lady. She took pride in her strange appearance, was obsessed with her hair and the hair of her children and husband, demanded that they act as a normal family when even Fenrir, from a young age, knew they were far from it.

Angrboða had an air about her, something tough and unmoveable which suddenly solidified once more in Fenrir's memories whilst he gazed upon Unnr. Because she was exactly the same: A blazing mother, a dutiful healer, but a woman as well as a nurturer. And _woman_ had never meant weak. _Woman_ was a word often coincided with _warrior_ in the world Fenrir had known prior to Asgard and the cave.

"Fine." Unnr finally accepted, realising after a long staring match that this was not a battle she was destined to win, even with all her stubbornness. Fenrir was not going to budge on this issue, however. He had been bound for too long. Of all the things returned to him, the freedom of his mouth and the right to speak was the one most gladly welcomed. He sometimes felt he could have bore his punishment gracefully, had it not been for the sword.

"But," she suddenly warned, cutting Fenrir short as he was about to answer with a punishing grip on his chin once again. "Do not speak. If  you so much as utter a syllable, so help me I will stitch your lips together. Do you understand?"

 Perhaps he shouldn't have been as continually surprised by her as he was. It was not a threat outside of the realm that Angrboða would have made - she often scared her children into doing what they were told by means of intimidation and her temper. Loki was no better, either. Though he protested her foul tongue, he terrified his sons to sleep at night with tales he had heard in the shadowed inns of humanity, or down the darker streets of Asgard.

Yet, it seemed like such a vulgar statement from a woman who was so seemingly affectionate. She had a smiling face, a jolly demeanour, yet she looked quite capable of taking out his eye with her small weapon and she wouldn't regret it for a minute. She wasn't about to watch her hard work go to waste on someone who didn't appreciate it.

And Fenrir, in his own way, _was_ grateful. Not for the facial surgery, but certainly for her kindness. For the clothes on his body, and the bed he was sitting upon. For the roof over his head and the eventual promise of food. Such charity was something to be thankful for.

She stepped away suddenly, satisfied he understood how serious she was about her threat, and beckoned him out of the room.

"If you are feeling well enough to protest the bandages and stare forlornly out of the window, then you are welcome to move about. Please feel free to come downstairs and we'll get you some water."

She caught his critical gaze and rolled her eyes. "A body needs water. Water will not harm you, unlike food. Even a hint of a solid may have you bleeding out over my floors again, sir."

And, like a dog obeying it's master, when she next waved a hand, Fenrir followed.

\--

Unnr had a growing brood of four, with a husband who was travelling across the country with their youngest son, who was just coming of age. They were going to the capital for the typical Vanr rites of passage. The same happened on Asgard.

The oldest of Unnr's children, the heir, Nótt, worked at a blacksmiths and presented Fenrir with a long, newly-sharpened knife.

"It is to keep you safe," he said with sober eyes and a strict frown. "Whoever attacked you will be more wary to do it again if you are armed."

Fenrir took it gladly, examining the blade and its hilt, before moving to thank him. However, Unnr caught his eye and Fenrir stopped, closed his mouth pointedly and nodded instead. Nótt glanced over his shoulder to his mother, understanding then why Fenrir had so quickly changed his decision of talking.

Unnr had given him a cup of water, but he was having difficulty with it. His hands were shaking too much to keep the cup steady, and even when he managed to get the rim to his lips, there was always another nuisance keeping him from partaking of the drink. This time, when he fought his own awkward body for the right to control it as he saw fit, it was his hair which got in the way.

Fenrir had never been fond of long hair. He'd taken after his father in that respect. Whilst he knew cutting his hair to his chin had infuriated his mother, he never found himself regretting it. He hated the length of it, the hassle of it, and the work it created. Nothing had changed with the passage of time. Even as a wolf he'd been hyperaware of how shaggy he could become, though that was simply one more misery to add to his already significant pile of complaints.

It was worse as a human, though. He had already noticed it fell to halfway down his back, pitch black and ridiculous in its length, and though he'd not given much mind to it so far, this was the final straw. Fenrir put down his water and picked up the knife, his hand much surer around a weapon than around a mug. He took the hair in his free hand, twisting it loosely, and sliced it away from his head in a single stroke.

One of Unnr's younger children, a little girl with her own brown hair braided neatly over her shoulder, gasped at his actions. Fenrir, however, hardly paid it any attention.

What was the point of so much hair, after all? He watched it drift to the wooden floor without remorse. The only reason he could think of to keep it would be for a place to store his beads: the ones he had kept of the family he'd been torn from. But, even then, he had lost them somewhere in Asgard, so long ago.

Unnr smacked his shoulder as she forced her way passed him, tutting under her breath and speaking with regret of the beautiful locks he had divorced himself of. He simply shrugged, running his fingers through his significantly shortened hair gladly, relived to have such weight gone. It was luxury he didn't find any issue with indulging himself in.

He assisted her in sweeping it up, realising belatedly his rudeness, and was then shooed out of the house with Nótt, having been left in the boy's company due to their apparently likeness of age. Fenrir was suspicious of that, aware that the Vanir aged as well as the Æsir, but feeling ancient in the man's glowing presence. He seemed so innocent, so young, that even if they were of the same age in years, Fenrir felt older from experience alone. He had been through more trials than many others, he knew. He'd suffered more than most.

Nótt was talking to him of his arrival, stating that Fenrir had startled them all when he had shown himself, naking and half-bathed in his own blood, his voice croaking, his body emaciated and bruised. They had never seen someone more thoroughly beaten blue who had gone on to survive.

"You must have walked for miles," he informed Fenrir, who was, in truth, not devoting all his attention to the dark-eyed man. "Your feet were almost destroyed."

Fenrir knew that, he had seen it. It was, once more, simply another thing that made him wince. He hardly even noticed his feet above the echoing pain of the rest of his body.

He was looking around, staring at the people as they snuck their eyes around to catch a peek, observing the village workings as he had earlier that morning with great interest, finding it easier to see from a ground level. He saw the market in the centre of the town, the active bodies milling about, and the frantic pace of everyday life. In was, its own way, very peaceful. He may as well have been transported back to Asgard, to a time when he was free to run around the markets as he pleased.

Or perhaps even further into his memories, on Midgard, when Loki took him to the nearest villages in spring in search of an exciting variety of foreign produce not grown in their own fields at home.

"Here," Nótt suddenly proclaimed, standing before the blacksmiths, which was standing empty for their inspection. It was small, but sufficient, and Fenrir was glad to see it absent of life.

The Vanr started protesting verbally when Fenrir suddenly grabbed him by the bicep and dragged him into the shadows. "Let me loose!"

Fenrir threw him against the wall, putting a tense arm to his neck and baring his teeth. He knew such an expression did not have the same effect as when Fenrir was graced with glistening, yellowed canines, but it was still enough to send the boy into a panic, attempting to thrash out against his sturdy hold. He had no luck. Fenrir was much too strong, even in his famished state. What he would be like once he had a few meals to replenish him was precisely what the Æsir had been so scared of in the first place.

"I need to leave." He hissed, making the man stiffen with his tone. "Now."

"Why? We have shown you hospitality and you will not stay to at least thank my mother?"

"I am thanking her by leaving. Point me to the next town. I will make my way from here."

Nótt shook his head, straining his fingers against Fenrir's forearm, trying to claw his way to freedom. It had no effect on the larger man.

"You're being hunted, aren't you? You weren't attacked randomly in the woods. You'd bring disaster to this town."

"Clever, aren't you, boy?" He smiled, attempting to channel all the terror of his father when he became nasty through his bright, false expressions. He recalled a human wandering too close to their isolated home, just to be met with Loki, green eyes crafty and face a picture of insincere welcome. There had been a reason people didn't stray their way again after that.

"The next town isn't for miles," Nótt finally gasped, realising he wasn't going to break free on strength alone. "You'd get lost along the way. There is no road there."

"I am capable of finding my own path." Fenrir informed him bluntly, stepping back and watching him drop to the floor, before glancing around the shadowed store for anything worth taking. He heard Nótt gasp for breath and stagger upwards to stand behind him, moving to follow out of idiotic curiosity as Fenrir perused the wares.

"Your accent," He coughed, only somewhat catching the wolf's attention as he picked up a sword and studied the dents in its blade. "It is Asgardian?"

"Yes." Fenrir snapped, keeping his words as short as he could, wary of Unnr's warning even after his threatening conversation with her son. "Is it relevant?"

Nótt fell silent then, and Fenrir glanced over, considering whether the boy was stupid enough to try and attack him. Instead, when he caught the black-haired man looking, the smaller of the two looked to the side with a snarl. He wasn't used to being bested, that much was obvious. However, he was still respectful enough of his superiors to not exercise his bravery in a fight he was doomed to lose.

"Try this," he suddenly said, darting to the other side of the room to lift up a large battle axe with a gleaming edge. Fenrir grinned, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from the left hand of his mouth.

He tested its weight and found it sufficed. It was significantly heavier than the sword - something that did not bother Fenrir at all - and comfortingly familiar. With his father, it had been knives and magic and spears. With his mother, it had been an axe.

"Thank you." He nodded, and Nótt returned the gesture stiffly, rubbing at his throat immediately afterwards. Despite his looks to Fenrir, the son of Loki was not going to apologise. It was not in his nature to regret what he felt he had needed to do.

"What direction?" He asked when they went back out into the daylight where life continued on in the little village, the men and women and children none the wiser for what had just happened inside the walls of the blacksmiths.

"East."

And east was where Fenrir pointed himself, securely tying the axe to his back and leading himself away.

"Where are you going?" Nótt demanded to know, darting forward to grab his shoulder and attempt to make him stop. "You are ill-prepared for a long journey. You are not correctly healed, you have no supplies, and only an axe to keep you company. You will not make it."

"Is it more than a week journey?"

Nótt shook his head, prompting a vicious look from the visitor of his town.

"Do you think me frail?"

" _Yes_ ," The boy said, before his brain had time to filter that this was likely the wrong answer. "You almost bled to death yesterday." He revised, quieter now, not daring to look into Fenrir's yellow eyes directly. "Let me just get us some water and food. Some more appropriate clothing; just a cloak each."

" _Us_?" Fenrir extracted, rounding on the man and making him jump. "No, Nótt Unnrjarson. There is no 'us', merely I. Now, if you would let me be."

"You attacked me!" Nótt protested.

"And yet after the fact, you wish to now spend days travelling with me? You know I'm dangerous."

"Better I ensure you find somewhere new, than my town get harmed because you are too lost to find anywhere else to turn to!"

"Ah," Fenrir realised with a nasty glimmer of delight. "You merely wish to unload the problem onto another. The only way to stay alive." He knew that from experience. His mother had failed to do so, and had paid the price for her thoughtlessness. His father was more proficient; well-practised at avoiding death.

"Just let me get a bag. I will inform my mother, and we can be off."

"You will run." Fenrir informed him, pointing in the correct direction of Unnr's home, before switching it to the east. "I will walk." It was as good an offer as he was willing to give.

Nótt, the foolish boy, took him up on it regardless.

\--

"How far yet?" Fenrir muttered, glancing up towards the sky to the sun, helping them keep their heading true.

They were in the middle of a field now, a seemingly endless expanse of marshland they were wading their way through slowly. The day was growing longer and they were thinking of bedding down as soon as they found somewhere more appropriate to lay a makeshift bed. Or, more aptly put, Nótt was thinking of bedding down, and Fenrir was considering abandoning him in the night.

"Perhaps another day. We should arrive late in the evening."

They settled about an hour later, finally discovering solid ground and a canopy to provide a little shelter. Nótt had the forethought to bring along tools for a fire and Fenrir left him to it, absently throwing off his borrowed boots and picking at his feet.

"Here," the boy said later, pushing his bag over to the larger man. Inside, Fenrir uncovered fresh bandages. "As much as you likely deserve death by infection, we're still too close to my village for my liking."

He kept quiet to watch Fenrir unravel and replace the dressing on his wounds, struggling with his left wrist, his right hand finding the task too fiddly to complete on its own with any ease. Nótt did not move to help, even being the son of a healer, rightly recognising the stubborn gleam about Fenrir's face.

"My mother shaved you to get your the injury." He commented a while later, when he noticed the wolf scratching at his smooth cheek, fidgeting just because he had not had the ability to do so in the last thousand years. It was a strange freedom, but one he found himself revelling in.

The boy's information, at least, answered a question he hadn't realised needed answering. His brain was still much too scattered to process much thought outside of, _leave_ , and _danger_ , and _fight_. He had noticed his too long hair when it had gotten in the way, but had not realised his face had been covered in hair as he had made his path away from the cave.

"Your mother threatened to sew my lips shut." He broke the silence a long time after Nótt had given up speaking, making the boy laugh sharply and nod.

"It is very much like her. That is not her at her worst. The scary thing about her may be that she would likely do it."

"Is that not a story of some kind?" It was a threat which had rung too many ominous bells in the patchy recesses of Fenrir's mind.

"Yes," The Vanr nodded, looking somewhat perplexed. "It is well known - that of Loki, when he tried to avoid a debt of the dwarves."

"What did he owe?" Fenrir barked, suddenly defensive, remembering now when Týr had briefly informed him his father had gotten himself into some very serious trouble, with a heavy payment due.

"His head."

Fenrir nodded brusquely, biting his tongue on some of the more creative language of Asgard. "'Tis better to stay his tongue than his life."

"It is what Thor believed, too."

Fenrir sneered. "What does Thor have to do with it?"

"He is the one to enforced the punishment upon him."

"Of course he was."

The boy sent him a curious look that Fenrir ignored, content now to warm himself by the fire and glower into the flickering flames. Before he had any concept of it, he found himself curling up and closing his eyes, warm and strangely content, even with the bitterness of the last conversation leaving a foul aftertaste in his mouth.

\--

They reached the town later than Nótt had prophesised, but the boy defended himself by saying he'd only ever made the trip on horses.

"You refused to take them." He shrugged when had Fenrir glared and gestured pointedly at the sun to indicate their failed attempt to keep on schedule.

"Horses and I do not work well together." At the same time, Fenrir only really remembered the horses in Asgard, who were intimidated by his wolf form, his sheer size. The only one who hadn't, he recalled, was Sleipnir, who was too menacing in himself to be cowed by an overgrown mutt. The horse was a pedigree, after all, unusual and uniquely valuable. Fenrir scowled at the very thought of it.

The townsfolk were not wholly welcoming to their arrival, not at the time of night they finally made it, but they secured rooms and Nótt at least slept soundly. Fenrir took his time to ensure the safety of his surroundings, more wary here than he had been in the forest. Though there seemed to be no eyes spying on him, the Vanir were tricky people, like the elves, the dwarves, the Æsir and the humans. Fenrir wasn't eager to trust anyone, truthfully. But better he surround himself with people than face off the warriors of Asgard alone. He knew from experience that villagers did not appreciate soldiers bursting into their town and disrupting their lives so violently, no matter how noble the cause behind the intrusion.

He finally settled, firmly closing the shutters and locking the door, relaxing into the comfort with as much surprise as waking to it had been two days ago. He slept soundly until mid-morning the next day when Nótt started rapping on his door.

"Are you not gone yet?" He asked after he had allowed the wood to swing open, turning back into the room to reach for the shirt he had tossed to the floor before sleeping.

"We need to get going to make good time." Nótt returned.

"It is in everyone's best interests for me to walk the opposite way from your village." Fenrir reminded him, surprised the boy's memory was so short. "'Tis why you so forcefully insisted I take you this far."

"I brought _you_ ," the Vanr corrected, ignoring the wolf's glare. "And I am going to take you to the capital."

"I do not wish to go to the capital." He dabbed his shirt against the corner of his mouth, hissing under his breath when he tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. Nótt, for the first time since Fenrir had demanded he let the horses loose, looked hesitant. Fenrir questioned, "Why are you doing this?"

"I need to ensure you're as far away from possible." It was evident from the larger man's returning snort that he was not willing to believe a word of it. Nótt huffed. "I wish to see the capital, is all. I have not been since my rite of passage. I aim to become a warrior."

"A worthy profession," Fenrir nodded, slipping the cloth over his head and prodding the side of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, aggravating the wound and making the boy wince. "I hope you find great fortune and honour in battle."

"I thought you were going, too." Nótt admitted. "You seem to be a fighter already. And you came looking as if you had walked out from a war."

"So you wished to join it from that alone? I have been repeatedly informed I almost _died_."

"No! I simply want to make my father proud."

"Going to Valhalla early will not do that, child."

"Don't speak of me as such. I am no younger than yourself." he spat, before shifting the conversation back to talk of the capital. "It will be safer there. There are thousands of people, and you will be protected."

"It is better I stay away from such a grand number."

Nótt looked at him imploringly, abruptly tugging at something deep within Fenrir's chest. Fenrir didn't immediately recognise the feeling, but he soon realised it was _protectiveness_. He was sent back to  a time so long ago, when Jörmungandr was nothing more than a tiny, hyperactive ginger creature about half of Fenrir's size, body bright with mischief and delight, wanting to explore the unknown, climb the highest mountains, swim in the deepest lakes, clamber down the smallest holes. Simply things children were wont to do, but several times more dangerous. Fenrir had usually put a stop to it, as was his duty being the older brother, but there were times when little Jörmungandr would plaster a particular look upon his features and stare at his brother pleadingly. It was an expression echoed now in this pathetic stranger, who wanted nothing more than to make his family pleased.

Jörmungandr had gotten Fenrir to track down an ogre with him, once. That little venture almost had them killed. If it hadn't been for their mother... Well. What Nótt was asking was therefore practically nothing at all in comparison.

His tongue clicked once, a sigh escaping soon after, as the wolf found himself caving.

\--

They travel without a mount again, Fenrir once more insisting they can manage the distance on foot, whilst Nótt argued with him for hours until he was forcibly reminded that his new travel companion was not a man who took kindly to people crossing his orders. Fenrir had limited patience for people who could not understand what the words ' _If you so much as touch a horse I will rip out your throat_ ' meant even in their own native language.

"The capital is weeks away," Nótt kept on insisting, but his fire had been lost with his nerves back in the last village.

"Consider it a quest for your future." He returned gruffly.

By nightfall they were not a great deal further along, but the Vanr wished to sleep and Fenrir was not opposed. He had still not eaten with his stitches so was steadily getting wearier. He was growing bored with them, though, and picking at the thread. Nótt started to threaten to redo it over if the larger man did not cease. Fenrir half wished to continue, simply to see if the young man who wished to be a warrior truly had the guts to act on his warnings.

Fenrir had thrown off the other bandages earlier that day and not bothered to restock their supply, accepting only enough to apply to his feet fresh each evening and morning. They were the parts of his body getting the most wear in their journey, and Fenrir was beginning to notice the pain a little more every day.

They had settled by the fire again, but they were not talking. They had not grown into the habit of mindless chatter during their journey; both of them too lost in themselves to be concerned with the other whilst they walked. Beside Nótt's protests and Fenrir's scathing retorts, there was little by way of discussion between them.

Except when the darkness started to shroud the two travellers and the cold settled in. Fenrir found the chill uncomfortable, too used to thick fur to like the lowering temperatures, but he seemed to be holding up better than the Vanr beside him. Nótt was trembling in the air, huddled close to the fire and clutching his cloak tight around him. Fenrir had already offered his, content enough in his shirt. The boy had thankfully taken him up on it.

"It is a skill of the Æsir?" He asked through chattering teeth. He elaborated when Fenrir made a querying noise. "Not feeling cold, I mean."

The other man snorted, recalling a journey he made with Týr to Niflheim only once. Fenrir had been happy enough to bounce around, not noticing the icy surroundings, but the warriors who had accompanied them had not been so elated. "Just me." And possibly Loki, he considered. Winter on Midgard had never bothered any of their family, either.

"Is it to do with your size?"

"Maybe." Fenrir knew he was unfairly proportioned, possibly even the size of Thor himself. He was built much more like his mother than his father. "Perhaps shift your thoughts from the cold, for a moment at least."

"That doesn't work."

"You're hardly trying."

Nótt sighed, burrowing further into his cloaks. Fenrir left him to it.

"What's your name?" The Vanr suddenly said into the silence, and it surprised Fenrir to think that he hadn't introduced himself. Of course he hadn't - when they had first met, Fenrir was on a policy of silence or a needle through his lips. After that, it didn't seem as relevant.

Instead of answering, however, Fenrir pretended to be asleep. He knew that there were likely rumours and legends of the Great Wolf, especially how close Nótt's village had been to Island Lyngvi, and he was not going to alienate his guide with such a heavy burden as the truth. There were thousands of names in the world, all of which were a lot less provocative than his own. He had until morning to come up with a good one.

\--

It turned out that such a thing did not actually matter, in the end. Nótt didn't get the chance to ask again, since, at midmorning, they were accosted by a sudden magical surge in the air.

"Get down," Fenrir hissed, ducking into the undergrowth when he felt the twisting of the seiðr around them, worried that Asgard had already caught up with him. Perhaps it might have been wiser to risk the horses. That way, at least, the brown-haired man had a way of getting clear of the inevitable battle.

The boy in question brought out his sword at the same time Fenrir drew his axe from its bindings, holding it out in front of him as he crouched in the bushes. He knew he didn't need a weapon, but it was better that they potentially he warned away from him by the sight of his impressive cleaver than have them charge at a seemingly unarmed man. The latter required Fenrir kill them, and he wasn't keen on having even more attention drawn to himself.

"What is it?"

"I don't know." Fenrir said with a snarl, because had he been in his other form, the comfort of his canine monstrosity, he would have been able to recognise the threat, identify who it was, and react accordingly before the unknown magician had been even a mile away.

He felt useless in this body, axe or no axe. What he wouldn't give for a glimmer of his own magic, just enough to maintain his shapeshift. That was all he needed.

A sudden flurry of cold - winter chill digging deep into their very bones - had Fenrir bursting from the shadows and brandishing his weapon in a startled face. He doubted very much that this was someone from Asgard - they were not so keen on the magical side of things, as Midgard were not - but that simply made this mysterious attacker more of a threat.

He had only a moment to pull back when he saw the small body, too skinny to be healthy with a deathly pallor to his features and fingers, before Fenrir realised perhaps he should have continued with the swing of his weapon. Nótt had emerged alongside Fenrir, yelling as Fenrir had, and stopped in precise time with the wolf as well. He would make a good soldier, the black-haired one considered.

"You!" Fenrir gasped, dropping the weapon and lashing out with his hands, just for the spirit to jump away, lighter on his feet how than he had before, using the natural seiðr in the air to manipulate the winds, the clever little crook.

"Fenrir, wait!" He protested, blue eyes big with sincerity. "I'm not here to hurt you, I swear to god-"

" _Fenrir_?" Nótt gaped, eyes turning to the man snarling at Jack Frost. The white haired sprite had the audacity to look apologetic, shrugging when Fenrir growled at him.

Nótt was backing away from them both now, sword drawn and flickering between the two of them with hatred and fear spreading rapidly over his face.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He screamed at the wolf, waving the weapon when Fenrir turned to him suddenly. The man gestured a hand in response.

"Perhaps the _why_ is obvious now, boy?" He snarled, upsetting the Vanr ever more.

He felt the wound tear with his stretched lips, the stitches losing their hold, and the blood running thick into his mouth and down his chin. He looked a tragedy, a beast from the depth of nightmares, golden-eyed and red-toothed, scarred and dirty and malicious. He was no more a person now than he had been as a wolf. He would always be a rabid animal, and taking his magic made him no less dangerous for it. Odin in Asgard, the only one with power enough to do such a thing, had been a fool to think he could defeat Fenrir this way, and then send a dead son of Loki after him to collect.

No. Fenrir was not going to stand here and let himself be captured by a lying spirit and a terrified childwith dreams too big for his head.

"Fenrir," Jack was saying softly, trying to get him to listen and not being deterred when the wolf swiped a hand at him, aiming for his damned earnest eyes. "You have to calm down."

"Calm down?" Someone replied, and it wasn't the wolf. Both magicians turned to the non-magical company of the ugly group, who had started a high-pitched laugh which bordered on the line of hysterical. Whatever fear he'd originally had of the spirit had been eradicated under the newest revelation and the horror of confronting a nightmare come true. "You claim this is _Fenrisúlfr_ , and you wish for him to be calm?"

Jack's face, Fenrir noticed, seemed concerned for the strange Vanr, even under the primary expression displaying some level irritation and anger for how he had spat out Fenrir's title like a curse. "Are you okay?" He still asked, and for a moment the older considered that perhaps the pale creature was not as false as he had initially believed. However, it was a feeling soon brushed aside when he recalled the likelihood that this was a being involved in the severing of his magic.

"This is the creature destined to bring about the end!" Nótt screeched, and if Fenrir hadn't been concerned for his own safety before, he certainly was then after a sword came hurtling towards him. He managed a few dodges, glancing it away with the palm of his hand only once, and realising that for all his skill, he was ill-prepared for a sudden onslaught such as this, fuelled by the panic which made men fearless. With his own weapon having been foolishly tossed to the side, he had no real way to defend himself.

He was also confused. Fenrir did not know what he meant, 'destined to bring about the end'. But, given a guess, he may have to say that may be why he was kept from his family all those years, or why they feared his father so. _Prophecies_ , Týr so often said.

When the blade came lashing down from directly above, Fenrir figured that at least this way whatever divinations were milling around about his family would be proven wrong. His death may be the wake-up call for Asgard to finally realise they were not monsters. Or, at least, only Fenrir was.

The hit never landed, however, and the wolf glanced up to see that Nótt had been tossed to the side by a powerful blast of ice. Jack Frost stood to his left, panting and furious, the air bristling with the cold and snow starting to fall. He _oozed_ power, just briefly, just for a moment, before it fled him again and he was left with only the seiðr in the environment around him to tap into. Which was Fenrir's cue.

He shot up sharply, startling the spirit who foolishly lowered his staff to watch Fenrir's approach with wide eyes, and after a quick glance behind him to ensure Nótt was down and would not try to attack him whilst his back was turned, Fenrir turned his own temper towards the ice sprite.

"You devious-" he snarled, rounding on Jack and making the spirit flit away worriedly. He wasn't fast enough, however, and the icy touch of the boy's skin did not deter Fenrir's grip. He hardly felt the cold as he tore Jack from the sky and pulled him close to his face. " _You_ , child, have much to answer for."

"Drop him, Fenrir," A voice suddenly stated, and Fenrir lowered Jack suspiciously, not letting the fighting creature go until he turned completely to face the visage of a beautiful creature dressed in all blacks and greys.

It if wasn't for the powerful scent of magic surrounding her, the wolf would not have recognised the woman at all.

But he did. Of course he did. There she stood - Hel, his sister, in all her glory and power. And Fenrir, the mighty wolf, the beast that haunted children's dreams at night, could not find it within him to do anything more than stare dumbly at the sight of her.

Hel. She had finally found him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was fun. And terribly long. Sorry.


	16. Follow You Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still longer than normal. I'll get back to the usual length in the next few chapters. These ones are special because Fenrir and Jor are my favourites. THANKS FOR COMMENTING AND READING AND LEAVING ME KUDOS AS USUAL YOU'RE ALL THE BEST.

There was an incessant bleeping in his ears which greeted Jörmungandr upon waking, and he shifted his weight to his side in an attempt to muffle the sound. It did little to help as the beep continued on, high-pitched and strange - a noise the serpent had never heard before.

He rolled onto his back once more, blinking his eyes to look over to the source, at first blinded by the bright surroundings along with the glaring sunlight.

"Hi!" A cheery voice said, and the unidentifiable noise very suddenly stopped. Jörmungandr adjusted quickly enough to the light to recognise the child who was sitting by his bedside. Harry, the child he had saved in the woods, was grinning at him sweetly, and he attempted to return it before glancing around the room. It looked different in the light.

After Harry and Jörmungandr had been found in the woods, they had been escorted by the search party to a pair of vans which took the two of them to the hospital along with Harry's mother, Grace. Where Grace was now was unknown, but the boy himself was sitting by Jörmungandr's head, grinning.

The room he was in was decorated plainly, painted in light colours and a neutral decor. It was very boring.

When they had arrived Harry had been asked to take a seat with Grace whilst Jörmungandr had been rushed to a doctor. Apparently, not wearing shoes in the middle of winter was dangerous. Jörmungandr hadn't known that, and neither, apparently, had his feet. They were a little battered from the travelling done, but they weren't frostbitten and his toes weren't about to fall off. That was a plus, he supposed. The doctor had written this down, baffled, but insisted he stay the night to keep an eye on him.

"You are inappropriately dressed for the winter," he informed the serpent, who shrugged. "What were you doing out there?"

"I live out in the centre of the forest." He told them blithely, which apparently seemed to answer several questions he was never asked. Such as, one of the nurses deigned to inform him when they put him to bed, why he had no medical records, or any sort of social propriety. Or why he talked in such a strange way - just a touch too old fashioned to pass off as normal.

He was told he sounded like he had learnt to speak once, but never had the time to update his vocabulary with modern phrases and slang.

Jörmungandr couldn't say he knew a lot of slang from any language, except Norwegian. But then his Norsk was probably a tad out of date.

He hadn't seen Harry again that night, being rushed around by hospital workers, so he was glad to wake up to the boy's broad grin. He looked a lot better now, warm and safe, and had something strange held between his hands.

"Where was that noise?" He asked, and Harry blinked.

"You mean this?" He held the object up for the snake's inspection, and the red head took a closer look, suspicious of the bright picture on a small screen.

"What is it?"

"It's a DS." Harry informed him, pointing to the picture and stating, "It's pokémon! You have _gotta_ had played pokémon at least once!"

Jörmungandr couldn't say he had. For the first time in a long time, he found himself baffled by language. "What does that word mean? _Pokémon_?" Harry didn't seem to know either. It was no word Jörmungandr had ever come into contact with on any of the realms. It felt wrong, not understanding something; it didn't sit right with him. Immediately he sneered at the little contraption and handed it back. "Why must it make such obnoxious sounds?"

"I can turn it down if you want." Harry said, sounding petulant enough for Jörmungandr to roll his eyes. He shook his head and waved a hand.

"It is not necessary, I was merely confused."

"No, it's okay." The boy started fiddling with the controls, making no apparent difference, but then the _DS_ hadn't been making any noise since Harry had spotted his saviour awaking.

"Are you healthy, little thing?" He suddenly asked the child, who nodded happily in return.

"They said I was exhausted and hungry and thirsty, but I could have been much worse. Mum keeps on telling me I could have died."

"You would not have died, badis. You are much too strong for that."

Harry grinned at him, preening under Jörmungandr's compliment, absently pressing buttons on his little contraption. "What about you? Are you okay?"

"Certainly. I've been told to stay off my feet, but I will likely ignore such warnings."

"It's your own fault for not wearing shoes." Harry pointed out, bolder now than he had been in the forest. Safety and comfort would do that to a person, even one as young as this child was; give them courage where they felt their safest, even if it was only a pretence.

"Oh, good morning," a voice interrupted them, and Jörmungandr glanced up to see Harry's mother walking in, cardboard cups in her hand and a pleasant, if slightly shy, smile about her features. "Do you like coffee? I brought you coffee, is all. If you don't like it, it's okay, I can go get you something else. Do you want something else?"

Jörmungandr blinked, taken aback at the sudden display of nerves from the blond woman, and held up a hand to sooth her words.

"Coffee is perfectly adequate," he assured her though he had no idea whether it was or not, reaching out for the cup when she coughed embarrassedly. "I thank you for your graciousness."

"You saved Harry," she shrugged, stepping closer to her son and glancing down at his light-coloured head where he was staring upon the glowing screen. "Coffee is the least I can do. There is no need to thank me."

"He doesn't know what pokémon is," Harry suddenly protested, as if it were unheard of. Grace patted her son's shoulder in consolidation.

"Take him straight to the executioner." She joked. "Why don't you put it away now, okay, kiddo? You came to see _him_ , after all, not your gameboy."

She pulled up a chair next to him and smiled at Jörmungandr, who was in turn watching how Harry huffed and puffed, complying only when his mother shot him a stern look. Immediately, however, the boy's attention was caught by something new.

"Oh, that's a pretty blue."

"Harry, don't touch them." Grace chided, but Jörmungandr didn't mind. Harry had seen his beads which he had placed on the table at his bedside, and had reached a small hand out to grasp one of the snake's favourites. It was an especially vivid colour, one unlike anything Jörmungandr had seen before or since, and it had been gifted to him on his tenth birthday by his father. It was a very basic style, with two tiny blue stones glimmering on either side of it, and it had been echoed by a few similar beads which had been given to his mother and his brother, only in yellow and red respectively. Jörmungandr had always wondered why those particular colours for each individual, but had never had the chance to ask.

"They look really old," Harry said.

Jörmungandr nodded. "Certainly older than you, oto cat."

"What's an oto cat?"

"It's a type of fish," Jörmungandr explained when Grace shrugged, unknowing. "They eat algae."

"Why are you calling me a fish?"

Jörmungandr tried to think of a reason to explain, to put in simple terms for the boy, but wasn't completely sure himself. It simply felt comfortable. It was nice to use words again, after such a long period of time where he hadn't spent any time tormenting the humans with beautiful visages and deadly songs. And Jörmungandr detested the thought of a pet name used twice. It seemed unimaginative, limiting. Languages were there to explore, to shape to your own and develop entirely new phrases unheard before in the entire history of the nine realms. Why not utilise such a grand skill, available to only a few races spanning the cosmos, to as many uses as he could?

But, for all his love of words and eloquence, Jörmungandr was stumped with how to begin explaining the wonders of language to a seven year old.

Grace, however, was there to save the day.

"Sometimes adults use funny words instead of names to show affection," she tried, and the snake gave her an encouraging nod. "You really just have to ignore them when they do it."

"So it means he likes me?" Harry extrapolated.

"Precisely."

"That's cool. I like you too, Jör- Jur-"

The serpent laughed. "Jör is fine, corydoras."

"You're making them up now!" Harry accused, laughing with him.

"I am only trying to make you smile." It was working, at least.

Before they left half an hour or so later, Grace ensured that Harry had returned all the hair beads he'd been ogling at, as well as making sure Jörmungandr was well. She ended with, "I'd like to thank you properly. Perhaps I could buy you a drink? Or a meal?"

"You need not-" Jörmungandr started, but Harry steamrolled over him, bouncing up and down with a sudden, exciting idea.

"You should join us tomorrow! The water has frozen and we're all going to go skating!"

Jörmungandr looked to Grace, aware it was her permission which allowed him access to Harry, and she nodded quickly once she realised what he was waiting for.

"Of course, rasbora." He then said.

"I don't believe they're real words."

"They're names of fish, I promise you."

Harry laughed delightedly. "You're lying."

"Why would I do that?"

The boy shrugged and waved goodbye, telling Jörmungandr sternly to meet him tomorrow before he was shooed out by his mother.

"Are you sure about that drink?" She asked again, and he smiled.

"I'm positive, madam."

She only nodded, thanking him earnestly again, before trailing after her son away from the room. Jörmungandr was left alone to think what else he had to do with his day. A nurse came in to decide that for him, instructing him that he needed some basic blood-work done, and some injections against simple infections. It seemed to swallow up the entire day. Humans really were that frail, the serpent learnt, that even the most basic of illnesses could kill them in the wrong conditions. Jörmungandr had to wonder how terrifying life must be for something so delicate, before thinking back to carefree Harry, who was planning to skate on a lake with only a slip of frozen water between himself and the icy abyss. He didn't seem frightened at the idea of something so potentially dangerous.

How did these creatures evolve such easy joy when their lives were always at risk? Or was it merely that, since they were such a fleeting race - one day here, the next day gone - that they _had_ to take pleasure from the day? Well, Jörmungandr could support such a wonderful philosophy of life, looking to the clucking professionals around him, intrigued, and gladly gave his time to them and their curiosity.

\--

Harry found him again the next morning, Grace just behind him with coffee as the day before, but this time she had two other children flanking her sides.

Though he had found the beverage far too bitter for his tastes, Jörmungandr still thanked her for her kindness and allowed Harry to sit on the bed beside him.

"How come you're still in here?" The boy asked whilst Jörmungandr tried not to eye the two newcomers which could only be Chris and  Ruth. Ruth was the oldest of the three children, and Chris of closer age to Harry than their sister. It seemed that Chris was more bold that Ruth, who was in her early teenage years and stood solidly next to her mother, whilst the boy came to sit in the chair which Harry had taken the day before without a hint of hesitation.

"I'm not on record, they said." The ginger man explained to the youngest of the three, but it was Chris who inserted his own voice into their discussion as an answer.

"Why aren't you? Haven't you ever been to a hospital before?"

"No." It was a truthful reply, but the children didn't seem to understand. "I was brought up largely isolated from the world."

"Like the cabin we saw?" Harry asked, and Jörmugandr nodded.

"Exactly like the cabin, yes."

"Jör has a brother and sister, too." Harry told his family, remembering from their chats as they had walked through the woods. "He liked to play with them."

"Harry, if Ruth doesn't want to play with you she doesn't have to-" Grace tried, making the situation clear as to why the boy thought it appropriate to mention, but Harry pouted mightily enough to put even the great Thor to shame.

"Jör always played with his brother and sister!"

"Not my sister," Jörmungandr corrected him smoothly, not faltering even when the boy turned a betrayed expression towards the snake. "She was much too young and delicate. My mother was very protective of her."

"But Ruth isn't young and delicate!" Ruth, in reply, glared at him viciously.

"Harry, please." Grace reproached him, at the same time Chris began to mock his younger brother. She stopped that too, sharply telling them both to behave.

"You'll still play with me, right, Jör?"

"Most certainly, minnow. I even checked with the doctor beforehand."

"Are you leaving in a wheelchair?" He sounded far too excited for that, Jörmungandr considered. He was certain he told the boy the previous day that his feet were not in any terrible condition, so he did not understand why such a thing would even occur to the boy.

"Why would I be doing that, then, charachin?"

"He's not being checked out of the hospital, Harry," Grace said, finally passing him the coffee she'd been holding. He took it with a smile and sipped at it, holding his face steady to not give away any visual disgust to the seemingly tired woman. "He just needs some fresh air. We all would, being stuck in a hospital for a few days."

"They ran all sorts of tests on me," Jörmungandr told him, and Harry immediately started to bounce with the promise of a good story. "They injected me with all manner of potions before drawing the blood from my very veins! _And_ they kept on insisting for more! I have come to learn that the equipment in this hospital is not as reliable as one may hope it to be."

"What do you mean?"

"They seemed to get a strange reading from my blood. They do not understand what it means."

"Why? Are you an alien or something?"

"Perhaps I am, but I am not aware of it!"

Harry laughed at the implication, believing Jörmungandr to be joking. In a way, he was. He may have technically been born of two aliens, but he himself was of Earth. Also, he most certainly _was_ aware of his colourful heritage.

"What are these?" Chris interrupted, and Grace gave him the same warning she had to Harry yesterday. This time, Jörmungandr was more aware of the fingers handling his beads. Chris, at least, listened to his mother's orders and placed them back down. The serpent was quick to pick them up after, and put them between him and Harry on the bed.

"Would you like to help me put them in?"

The boy nodded eagerly, snatching the blue one from the sheets and holding it up. "This one first!"

"Good choice." Jörmungandr praised, taking a strand of his ginger locks to demonstrate the best method of beading hair.

\--

Grace finally had the chance to sit down when they reached the lake, frozen solid by the sub-zero temperatures and safe enough for the children to play on. There were other families here, parents huddled close together whilst their kids squealed in the snow and ice. Chris and Harry where already heading to the solid water, pulling the ginger man they had finally managed to get out of the hospital close behind them.

It took a bit more of a push to get Ruth to leave her mother's side, but Grace had finally managed to budge her oldest off of the bench they had found and out into the middle of a snowball fight between the two siblings and Jörmungandr. The older man, bless his heart, was losing gracefully, allowing the boys to overpower him with snowballs. Ruth was eventually intrigued enough to go join her brothers.

Grace, once alone, started to think on how much she truly owed this man who was making a fool of himself in front of all these people, being pelted by snow and laughing about it, even in his thin, still stunningly inappropriate wear. The hospital had given him spare shoes and a coat, but the medical mystery had abandoned them as soon as he had made it clear of the nurses' watchful eyes. He had then proceeded to dump them with Grace when she had gestured to the bench and told them all her intention to sit upon it and not move for the rest of the morning.

Jörmungandr, whoever he truly was, was a hero to her for bringing her son home safe and sound. She had spent the entirety of yesterday attempting to puzzle out how best to thank him, but so far every suggestion she could cook up had been rejected or seemed too little. How was she supposed to return the favour of his returning her son to her? She didn't know if he could even comprehend the relief that had flooded her mind when the child had burst through the trees and back into her arms.

She had not let go of her son the entirety of that night - sleeping with her arms wrapped tightly around him back at their hotel room with the other two on the other side of her double bed. They had all been so scared, unable to find Harry anywhere and growing increasingly terrified that they had lost him forever. Whilst she knew he had not been gone even been a day, Grace knew that even those few hours was enough for something terrible and unthinkable to happen.

Thankfully, something wonderful occurred instead. By God's mercy, an angel had been sent down to watch over her son, and though he was a strange choice, he was certainly the best. Grace could not have asked for anyone more suitable than this man, no matter how odd he first appeared.

Grace startled out of her own thoughts when Jörmungandr himself came to sit next to her, dropping down on the bench heavily and smiling into the distance where the children were making their toys skim as far across the ice as they could.

She asked him, "Did they wear you out?"

"They're trying to." He nodded, stretching his arm across the back of the bench. "They're very energetic."

"It's nice to have them all together like this. Thank you for agreeing to play."

"Do they not do this with their father?"

"They don't have a father." She said, realising belatedly that she had perhaps been too brusque in her statement. Jörmungandr didn't seem offended by her snappish tone, however, and simply frowned at himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I did not realise. Did he die?"

"No. One day he just... he just up and left before Ruth got back from school, leaving me with a baby and a four year old." She stopped, disliking the bitterness and anger which had infected her own voice, along with the strange look of blankness which had overcome Jörmungandr's freckled features.

She then heard a pounding of feet against snow, and she glanced to her left to see her youngest approaching fast.

"Oh, honey," She cooed as Harry ran up to them with sad eyes and a broken toy. It was one of his _Ben 10_ aliens and its arm had snapped off. "Do you want me to look at it?"

But Harry didn't seem to hear her, moving straight towards the red-head instead.

"Can you fix it, Jör?" He wondered, pressing it into Jörmungandr's outstretched hand when prompted.

"Certainly, guppy."

"Go play," Grace insisted, reaching out to push Harry back to his brother when he looked as if he was considering sticking around to linger. She didn't want him to listen into their conversation about his father.

“Why did he leave?” The ginger man then asked when Harry was once again out of earshot, scanning his eyes across the doll with a click of his tongue.

“I guess he thought it was too much.” Grace sighed, watching out to her children who had returned to playing on the ice. “I suppose they _can_ be a handful sometimes.”

“Being a father isn’t hard,” Jörmungandr said, eyes trained on the alien toy he was fixing, biting his lip with the effort of splitting his concentration two ways. “You need only be there. A child does not ask for more.”

Grace turned her attention to him carefully, the way his fiery orange hair spilled over his shoulders and ran down his back, adorned with the beads her son had helped place that morning. He was thin, gangly, and unspeakably unusual, and yet he seemed so gentle. He had saved Harry in the woods, and now was sticking around solely because the boy had asked him to play. He had better things to do than entertain a child – she could tell from the occasional strain to his posture when he lingered too long in the silence, as his thoughts finally caught up with him – but he had yet to leave. He may at first appear too sharp to touch, too curious to approach, but he was more than that. He was a man with a family, somewhere, and one he yearned after every day. He was very much like Harry in that respect, or like Chris and Ruth – wanting something that just wasn’t there anymore.

“Are you a father, Jörmungandr?” She asked, voice tripping around his name and almost one-hundred percent certain she had pronounced it wrong, but he, as he did when the kids attempted to get their mouth around the curious string of syllables, didn’t say anything about it.

He laughed instead, honest and amused, lifting his crinkled up eyes to meet hers, intensely green and dancing in the low light of the afternoon.

“I’m not the father type.” He said as an end to the conversation, standing to hand Harry back his toy, now fully functional once more. Grace only stared as her son hugged the man around the waist, and Jörmungandr replied by kneeling down once he was loose to swoop Harry up and swing him around. Harry squealed with delight, refusing to be let down once Jörmungandr straightened out to his full, not insubstantial height. The man wound up with a seven year old about his shoulders, chasing after Chris as he tried not to skid on the ice.

Grace scoffed as his final comment lingered in her head, and she shook her head in denial. Just watching them she could see how much he missed his own kin, but how the lie had slipped from his lips so fully formed and well practiced that even he had not noticed its falsity. Just look how he reacted with Harry, how easily the child had accepted Jörmungandr into his life. Even Ruth, usually so suspicious and the one most hurt by her father's sudden absence, was starting to drop her guards. If there was a better parent in the making, than Grace had yet to find them.

\--

The TV was on in the background, blaring out something which no one but Jörmungandr could understand, but he was not giving it any attention. Chris had his eyes on it, trying to puzzle out the words, but besides a few similar sounding phrases, such as _Amerikka_ and _New Mexico_ , he was lost. There were some pictures of sad looking children, but that didn't mean anything to anyone either.

"I don't understand," Harry was saying, staring at the string in between Jörmungandr's fingers. Ruth tutted and demonstrated.

"It's cat's cradle." She sighed, highly disappointed in them both. The two boys shrugged at each other, baffled.

"It doesn't make sense." Jörmungandr returned.

"It's _string_." Was what Harry considered to be his killing blow. "How can you have fun with string?"

"Like your dolls are any better." She scoffed, glancing to the various aliens scattered around her little brother.

"They're not _dolls_. Only girls have dolls."

"Stop fighting you two." Grace said, pausing from her ironing to cease their argument before they started jumping at each other's throats. "We behave with guests, don't we?"

"They're children," Jörmungandr inserted with a wave of his hand, brushing off the unspoken apology. "I was exactly the same with my siblings. Mother was never happy with us."

“What happened with your family? Do you not see each other?” Ruth asked bluntly, and it threw the ginger man in front of her.

“Uh,” Jörmungandr said, hesitating. Such a thing was strange to see on his face, and Grace was thrown by the sudden diffidence in the man. However, slowly, he decided he was able to continue and answer the girl properly. “There was an incident. It was a long time ago, when I was young - possibly around Chris' age. I don’t really want to talk about it, blåveis, if you don't mind.”

Ruth seemed a little put out by the winding non-answer, but Grace glared at her until she backed down.

"So," Grace tried to change the subject whilst she folded the clothes. "Harry said you were heading somewhere. Are you going home for Christmas?"

The man shook his head, smiling awkwardly. "I don't celebrate Christian holidays."

This made the woman stop for a moment, whilst Harry tilted his head. "You don't like Christmas? But what about presents and Santa Claus?"

"Nicholas only brings presents to children, furcata. Also, it is not the religion I was brought up on."

"What does 'mielensä' mean?" Chris suddenly asked, and Jörmungandr was quick to answer.

" _Mind_."

"What were you brought up on, then?" Harry snatched back his attention, talking once more of beliefs.

"I suppose you would call me a pagan. My father prayed to Búri, and my mother to Bergelmir. I do not pray to either of them. Neither have done me good."

Grace was aware that there were Neopagan movements all across the world, but she had yet to meet one so open about it. She was not a practising Christian, but this new admission still sat a little strangely with her. She knew it was no different to conversing with a Muslim or a Buddhist, and this revelation now made no difference to how he had acted in the past, so she didn't know why she suddenly felt so uncomfortable.

It was perhaps the tone of voice in which he had stated the gods his parents had devoted themselves to had betrayed him. It was not just belief in that voice, but complete and utter truth. These were beings which had more than just failed him, they had destroyed him.

"What's a pagan?" Harry then asked, which was what broke the spell. Her discomfort was lost in the tales Jörmungandr started to spin, talking wildly of varying faiths from around the world, of polytheism and crazy gods, some of which he spoke of as if old friends.

His own paganism, it seemed, was Germanic. He recounted Viking legends and Nordic poems as he grew up with them, enlightening her children of Thor and his hammer, Mjölnir, to the beautiful Freyja, the strong, skilled dwarven race, and more. It seemed all rather Tolkien to Grace.

But Harry lit up with it, running around and brandishing one of his aliens as if a weapon, screaming to the ceiling he was the god of thunder. Jörmungandr played along, pretending to be bested by the child again, another count to add to the growing tally of defeats, lying on the floor and struggling to move under the pretend weight of the plastic figure.

In the corner the TV flickered, still showing the sad blue eyes of the children on the other side of the world.

"What about 'menettivät'?" Chris queried.

"It means _lost_."

\--

They were in the park again later that day, playing a game with snow which, this time, even worn-out Grace had been pulled into, and Jörmungandr was happily being directed by Chris.

"You've gotta get more snow. We need a bigger head." He told the serpent, who complied quietly.

They were building a snowman. It was fiddlier work than he remembered. Back when he was a child, he and Fenrir had competitions to see who could create a better shape out of moulding the fallen ice. Fenrir always won because his magic was more developed, but Jörmungandr consistently found his revenge by melting the structure down quicker than it took for Fenrir to counteract the spell. Fire was a lot easier to manipulate than water, after all.

It was during the confusing period of trying to figure out whether it was better to go with the classic design of two large snowballs on top of each other with a head, or to mash it up to appear more like a true person, that Jörmungandr realised Harry's concentration had been stolen away. This was drawn to his attention when the boy began tugging at the bottom his shirt.

"Jör, I think your sister is here to see you." He said, and the snake blinked twice, digesting those words slowly, before shaking his head.

"What? No, sweet gudgeon, I believe you're mistaken. My sister would not be here for all the treasure in the realms."

But Harry pointed in an appropriate direction and Jörmungandr's eyes followed the trail. He froze where he stood, paralysed by fear and shock, when he registered what, precisely, he was seeing.

“She looks just like you.” Harry said. And it was true.

She had a thin face and a pointed nose, too sharp for its own good. They shared their father's cheekbones, but she had his colouring. If Jörmungandr had been born with hair as dark as hers, how easily the worlds would mistake them for twins. 

"Go." He suddenly barked, pushing the family of four away from the park and rushing them back to the hotel. "Move!"

"Jör, what's happening?" Harry said, but instead of answering the serpent swooped the child up in his arms and picking up the pace.

"Get to the room." He said, and they complied, startled by the sudden change in Jörmungandr's previously pleasant conduct.

He glanced back once and saw Hel was following him. It was clearly her. Everything from her visage to her magic identified her to him immediately, and her green eyes never once left Jörmungandr's face.

As soon as they were back in the large room, the snake slammed the door behind him, locking it quickly and pushing his back against it.

"What is going on?" Grace demanded, but she was interrupted by a careful knock from the other side of the door.

Jörmungandr pressed a finger to his lips, indicating for silence as he had so often seen Grace doing when her children started to become a bit too rowdy.

"Jörmungandr." Hel spoke softly through the wood and the third son of Loki held his breath and did not reply, stood frozen still against the door as he listened to her sigh. "Jörmungandr, please." Perhaps the worst part of it was that she was actively speaking in Norwegian. She had the same strange lilt that their father had, a hint of foreignness which never seemed too pronounced. He slowly slid to the floor when his legs gave up on holding him so motionless, and he buried his face into his knees. Perhaps, he thought rather childishly, hiding from the problem might make it go away.

And Hel was definitely a problem. Hel was the biggest problem he had faced in all of his lengthy life.

"Come out. Stop hiding. I need to speak with you, it's important. It's about Loki."

But Jörmungandr could not find the guts to open the door. He curled up into himself further, trying to regulate his breathing and pull himself together. It was not working. Not even thoughts of Harry, who had only ever seen him with a smile on his face, could break the snake from his miserable spiral downwards. He clung onto himself, digging his nails into his legs, and felt two awful tears escape and run down his cheeks.

Eventually the steady stream of her voice stopped, giving way to a few seconds of deadly silence, before the clip of her heels on the wood of the hall gave evidence that she had given up and was walking away.

Jörmungandr clawed himself more firmly when panic threatened to rise up and choke him; panic which urged him to throw open the door and run after her.

_This is your family! You're going to let her leave? She might never come back!_

No. No, he needed to stay. He told himself it was better this way.

The children had run to the window overlooking the streets, straining themselves to see whether they could spot her as she exited the building.

"Her dress is so pretty!" Harry said, taken aback by the seemingly simple design which was, in all truth, the exact opposite.

"She has beads in her hair like you." Ruth informed him. Jörmungandr was not paying attention, however, preoccupied as he was with his own inner turmoil. 

“Jörmungandr!” Grace chided, outrage clear in her voice when Hel had finally disappeared from view. “What is the _matter_ with you?”

The snake looked up suddenly, shocked by the fury in the woman's voice. The _audacity_ of her, to think that she could shout at _him_ for something she did not understand. She was an infant, no more a blip in time than her children were destined to be, but Jörmungandr... Jörmungandr was different. He was the serpent of Midgard. He was a point of history for this world. He was the leviathan, the uroboros, the monster of the sea, and yet she was ready and willing to lecture him? He was not going to stand for it.

“Me?” He howled in return, standing sharply, wrathfully, face wretched in his rage and grief. “What is the matter with _her_? Why would she come here when she knew I had no wish to see her? If I wanted her company, I would have found it.”

“She’s your sister!”

“Do you know what that was?” He pointed at the closed door furiously. “Do you understand what just happened? That was the first time I have even heard her _speak_. I have neither seen her face nor perceived the sound of her voice since she was but a child incapable of more than incomprehensible babble. I do not wish to see her. I do not _know_ her. She is _no one_ to me.”

Grace faltered then, but she looked no more scared by his outburst than he had hers. "Don't tell lies." Was all she said in reply.

He was shaking. He only realised when Harry approached him slowly and let him to the bed, looking lost for what to do as he sat Jörmungandr down and gazed upon him quizzically.

The serpent knew how he must look - ridiculous and tragic, with his face red from anger and his golden eyelashes glinting with tears. But Harry didn't ridicule him, and nor did any of the others who stood around him, watching him break down.

"You're wrong," Grace suddenly said, sliding her arm around his shoulder and drawing him close to her. She tucked his fiery head beneath her chin, wrapping herself around him and rubbing a hand up and down his arm. It was unspeakably comforting. "About not being the father type."

"I had a decent role model." He confided softly under breath, and Grace knew, despite the short length she had known him, that even so little murmured about his family was as intimate a show of trust as Jörmungandr would ever be willing to give.

"I'm sorry." He said eventually, and she shook her head, hushing him until he had calmed down. In his hand, Harry's little fingers gripped onto him tightly.

\--

Hel found herself lingering longer than she had intended to in the human town, flickering in and out of sight and hovering around the hotel in the hopes of catching her brother. She had no real reason to stay, but she had been so captivated by the thought of reuniting her siblings that she hadn't for a second considered the thought that they may not wish the same. But, of the two of her brothers, she had not expected Jörmungandr to deny her. He had always sounded much too joyful for such anger when their father had recounted their lives together before Odin had come to split them apart.

She was only hanging around now out of a vain hope that the serpent of Midgard may change his mind. But she had seen the fear in his eyes as clearly as she had seen madness in Loki's, and that was not a face which would be talked round into rationality.

She had been taken aback by his looks, but it was through them that she had been able to recognise him in the first place. There were only so many people in the world that looked as if the picture image of their father. He looked too much like him to be mistaken for anything but a Lokison, so it was lucky Jörmungandr had found refuge on Midgard - the one realm where Loki wasn't instantly recognisable. He shared the same nose, the same eyes, even the same height and build. The differences came only in the details: Where Loki was pale with a delicate complexion, Jörmungandr was rough, worn, with freckles dotted erratically across his nose. His eyelashes were golden, where Loki's were inky black. The latter seemed like a strange thing to note, but truly they were one of the few things which kept the two distinct.

As a snake, he had been terrifying - large and unsightly, rising up out of the waves and breaking ships in half with a thrash of his long tail, or a single bite of his jaws. But, though this was his preferred form, it wasn't the only one he had assumed over time.

As a woman, a mermaid or siren or a Melusine, he had always been beautiful. He often retained his red hair to appear ever more ethereal as he danced through the waves and tricked sailors into taking their own lives. He was always very fond of the games he could play with lusting people lost at sea.

But as a man he was merely strange. His cheekbones were pointedly too sharp to be mistaken for anything other than healthy, his body too delicate to be seen as anything beyond effeminate. His hair was burdened with plaits and beads, making him look too old fashioned, ancient. Left behind in this modern world.

Yet, despite this, he seemed to fit so seamlessly into it. Hel had caught a glimpse of him playing with the family he had found, the children he had bonded with and the mother who trusted him. She later followed her brother to the hospital, watching how he freely allowed himself to be subjected to tests and questions and puzzled doctors, taking it all into his stride without strain, without care. For all that he had been stripped of magic and left to fend for himself, he was coping. He actually seemed... happy. No, happy wasn't the right term from it.

There did appear to be some amount of edginess to him, but that was likely due to her presence. He kept on looking behind him, or peaking out of windows, just to see if she was still out there. She was never in eyesight, keeping herself hidden in shadows and under the cover of night, but he knew she hadn't left. His face got darker each time.

In the morning Hel was finally thinking about leaving. There had been no sign from the magic attached to Jack that he had found Fenrir as of yet, but it would come soon. Her older brother could not have gotten far, like Jörmungandr had failed to.

It was actually curious, his being here.  She had rather expected him to head in the opposite direction. She had been waylaid by this, going to Norway rather than starting where her senses should have led her. She had figured out to follow the faintest trace of magic eventually, which looped confusingly through the forest before emerging here, in this town.

It was not immediately identifiable as Jörmungandr's magic, which was the strangest thing of all. Something about it was familiar, though, and Hel found it child's play to chase the scent. What she had found on the other end had been harmony and joy, destroyed the second that her brother looked up and recognised her.

She knew Jörmungandr would prefer to keep that peace over the turmoil she had brought him, though what had triggered it was unknown to her, since she had done nothing to him in all their lives. But she wasn't willing to leave too quickly. Not before at least giving him the chance to come around.

As it turned out, her patience paid off. Eventually, early morning, the hospital doors opened and her second brother, donned in a loaned purple t-shirt and a pair of hospital issue trousers, emerged determinedly, with his hair an unbrushed rolling wave down his back, stopping only at his hips.

"Hel, I know you're there." He called out, and she appeared before him on command, trying not to smile too much. He, after all, did not seem pleased to be in this position even though he had willingly come to her.

"The children informed me I was being childish, even by their standards." He explained slowly in pretty Norwegian. "Grace then used several interesting methods of persuasion to convince me to at least hear you out. So, I'm going to ask the questions and you're going to answer them, do you understand?"

Hel no longer felt the urge to smile. Her face was as solemn as her brothers, anger starting to boil low in her stomach, but she listened to his words and nodded stiffly.

"Very well."

"What has happened to me? My magic is gone."

"I'm unsure of the details, but I believe that someone in a better position than us has severed you from you seiðr. Likely Asgard, since they were the ones who imprisoned you and Fenrir, and the only ones who knew where you were."

"Fenrir? Has this happened to him, as well?"

"Yes."

Jörmungandr snarled, nostrils flaring as he furiously turned away, shaking his head in disgust.

"It was him wasn't it? The man that our father calls father."

"Likely." Hel allowed, but Jörmungandr did not allow her to continue when his movements backwards and forwards became agitated and his speeches more lengthy.

"What? It wasn't enough to take me as a child and toss me into this forsaken, puny, rearwards realm? He tears my family apart and isolated me here, curses me to never step on land again until the spell is broken, never to truly talk with another, never to create any meaningful contact? Not that it matters, of course," he snarled bitterly. "What does a _monster_ want with interaction and love?"

Hel tried to intercede, disliking the violent way her brother's thoughts had turned, but he spun to face her, stopping his pacing and holding up a hand, ceasing the words half-formed on her tongue.

"Actually," he continued. "I can forgive all of that. I can forget all the _agony_ he's put me through, in favour of his newest sublime mistake: I was under _ice_ when he changed me back. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't break out. If it hadn't been for mother's magic-"

"Mother's magic?" Hel said, realising that _this_ was the trail she had been following, and what was bleeding from Jörmungandr's skin so readily. She reached out as if to touch it, but he reared back, wincing away from her pale fingers.

"Are you not listening to me, Hel? I could have _died_. And I've heard things about Fenrir. Prophecies, stories. About a cave? A sword? Borr knows what happened to him when he changed."

"He was wounded." She informed him, remembering the trickle blood which had trailed out of the cave.

Jörmungandr only nodded, eying her with a slack mouth and suspicious eyes. "He was injured. Of course he was. You know, it's funny, but of the three of us, _you're_ the only one who seems to be okay."

"Jörmungandr," she sighed, coming to recognise very quickly that here was perhaps truly a lost cause, that she should not have stayed to hear him. He was projecting his anger onto her, all that pain and loneliness he had suffered, and she was the first person he could really be furious at. She knew it was ridiculous to take it personally, that it was very likely she would have been as tense as he if their positions had been swapped, but she could not help it. This was her _brother_ , and he was looking at her like she was a beast.

"No, Hel. I was as much a child as you. Why did _I_ become the monster? Why not _you_?"

"I _am_ a monster, brother." She informed him, but he merely scoffed at her, turning away.

"What are you doing here?" He suddenly snapped, and Hel felt her hackles rising.

"I told you. It's about father."

"What about him?"

Hel knew Loki and Jörmungandr did not share a sparkling relationship, nor even something so basic as what Loki had once had with her. The snake, as the Odinson told it, had been going out of his way to avoid Loki these last few hundred years. He thought it was embarrassment, but looking at Jörmungandr's reaction to Hel's unexpected arrival gave way to her considering that it may be something else. Resentment, most likely. That the two of them had been free where Jörmungandr and Fenrir were not. Hel then contemplated if this was going to be her welcome with her older brother as  well - just anger and emotions and heartache.

"You know of Ragnarök?" She finally said.

Her brother glanced at her with narrow eyes, twisting back his body to face her once more.

"Yes." He returned slowly. "The humans used to speak of it with terror. Talks of _me_."

"Loki intends to start it."

Jörmungandr stepped back, his hands widespread and a shrug to his shoulders. "So?"

" _So_?" Hel stressed, shocked at her sibling. "This could be the end of everything!"

The ginger shook his head, a dismissing look about him. "I don't care."

"You don't care? You're apathetic of the fact he intends to chop Yggdrasil down to its roots?"

"Why not let him do it, Hel?" Jörmungandr returned with a voice equally raised to match her own growing temper. "After what they've done to him? Done to us? By the gods, _I_ want to stand back and watch it all _burn_."

"You do not care that your father will drag you and your brother to your _deaths_?"

"What else have we to live for? Either he kills us, or they do. Better we kill them back."

"What about here, Jörmungandr? This realm? _That family_! The children! You would see them dead?"

Here was were the man hesitated, but the pause was nothing more than fleeting. The words on his tongue passed through his lips before he seemed to even fully conceptualise them. "They are mortal. They will die one day."

"We all will. Why make it today?"

"Get away." Jörmungandr started putting space between the two of them as he began walking backwards towards the hospital doors. "Get away from me!" He screeched when she tried to follow.

"Will you help him?" She called, and he snarled at her, knowing what she was asking. "If he came looking for you, would you willingly assist him murder those people you call friends? The younglings you played with?"

"What do you want from me, Hel? An oath? For me to say I won't help him because he's going to kill people? What has that _ever_ been an issue for us?"

"He's changed. He's become unhinged. You didn't see him, Jörmungandr."

"No, I didn't, and I don't want to. I don't care if he's lost his mind. If he comes near me or that family, I will kill him. Is that what you want to hear?"

It wasn't, but Hel should not have been surprised that it was a conclusion Jörmungandr had been drawn to. She had threatened much the same, after all, only a few days prior.

"Just be clever, brother," she tried, glancing to where a few people were peering out of the hospital windows to look to where the shouting was originating from. A particularly irate nurse was exiting the automatic doors, heading on a beeline straight towards the warring siblings with clear intents to stop their fight. She was too late. Hel had since come to understand that Jörmungandr had sunken his roots into this snowy ground, and he was not willing to budge for anyone. Not for Hel, or Loki, or Fenrir. Likely not even for Odin himself. "If Loki comes to you," she warned, aware that it was unlikely, but unwilling to take that chance. "Do not listen to him. He does not want to help you."

"I'm not dim-witted, sister. I am aware of his lying tongue."

"Hey, into the hospital with you," the nurse snapped in quick Finnish, taking Jörmungandr by the shoulder. He seemed to know her, and was quicker to react favourably to the mortal than he had ever been to Hel's presence.

"Goodbye." He said firmly, and it was such a permanent statement that Hel had to bite down on her tongue to keep herself civil and her expression clear of emotion. He plainly wanted nothing to do with her nor had he any concerns for her feelings, so she was not about to display them for his mockery.

"Goodbye." She returned blankly, before he headed back into the tall building. She herself turned sharply on her heel and walked towards the park where they had first laid eyes on one another.

She spent a few hours wandering the planet, looking around with critical eyes on a realm she had never really paid much attention to, asking herself why her brother would prefer to remain than to help. It was when she was in Norway, lurking in a vast, barren plain, when her magic gave her the signal - the one which indicated that Jack had stumbled across what they was looking for.

She moved immediately, still on edge and battling her own fury, wanting to lash out but unwilling to lose her calm demeanour on an alien planet. She headed straight for Vanaheim, tracing Jack with the locator spell she had pinned to him, and landed seconds later - just in time for her to see her brothers clash weapons; Jack his staff and Fenrir his strength. Of the two of them, there was only one clear winner.

A single thing which Hel mourned in the quieter moments of the night, was that she did not have memories from when she was a child. There was nothing in her mind from the time she had spent with her parents and brothers. She had been much too young when the soldiers had come and ripped her from her mother's arms.

She did not recall the childish faces of her siblings, and nor could she have even began to identify Jörmungandr without the help of his decaying magical aura. Likewise, she had no idea what would be in store when she finally looked Fenrir in the face for the first time in a thousand years. All she had of that time were her father's stories and a few hand-made beads.

She wore two in her hair now, both made with the inexperienced hands of children. They had been gifts from her brothers, rough and imperfect and silly, and the only evidence she had that they had loved her once.

Jörmungandr no longer did. It was now time to see whether Fenrir felt the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any incorrect Finnish. I just used a translator.


	17. Theft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. This chapter was truly cruel. It's short because it hates me.

Whatever was happening on the other side of the world between a conflicted brother and an estranged sister, there were many people who didn't care about it: people who had bigger things to deal with at the moment than two single individuals, no matter how anomalous they were. No matter what magic they were exuding, nor that their angry conversation, yelled in Norsk Norwegian, was about one of the most wanted criminals on several different lists.

SHIELD, for all that they had eyes and ears across the globe and should have picked up on that particular exchange, _really_ didn't have time for it right now. They had something much bigger to concern themselves over.

Director Fury was approaching the door of the medical wing in the hope of some answers, coming to stand next to Agent Hill who was keeping solidly still as she peered in through the window. Inside, the SHIELD-grade doctors were running tests and biting their lips, obviously frustrated and scared. The subject of their tests was a child, no older than twelve, who stared unmoving, unblinking, into the centre of the room. There was no life in her blank, brown eyes.

"There's nothing physically wrong with the child," Hill answered an unspoken question, having been keeping track of the goings on of the inside of the cell, despite the soundproof glass between her and them. "They don't know why she just stopped responding."

A better question, Fury considered, wasn't why she alone wasn't responding. It was why the entire child populous of the small town in New Mexico stopped as well. All at once, the children seemed to, due to lack of a better term, shut down. There was no medical basis to it, and it seemed to only affect anyone under the age of about sixteen.

He turned around on his heel after a few moments of silence in which he and Hill stared through the glass and observed the motionless child. It was eerie, to say the least, and whilst Fury was concerned, there were few answers to be found by just waiting around.

Hill followed him, her strides coming to match his as he walked towards the centre of the helicarrier, to the main hub of the floating fortress where there were hundreds of highly trained agents on the verge of panicking. It was something about children - when they were the victims, rationality seemed to become lost to adults as well.

"Sir, are we calling in the Avengers?" Maria asked, her tone attempting to remain affectless but giving away her emotions despite her best efforts. Those feelings were very clearly conflicted - she trusted the Avengers, but they still didn't sit right with her. That was fine, because half the time Fury agreed.

Individually, none of the so-called superheroes could really function without making a mess. Even Steve Rogers, the one and only Captain America, was hindered by his almighty heart. Without someone sensible like Agent Romanoff, or selfish like Tony Stark, to stop him, he'd end up killing himself in the attempt to save every life.

Stark went without saying. He'd sooner blow everyone up than do things rationally. Banner didn't appreciate SHIELD's authority at the best of times, and Thor was... well, he was rather in a league of his own. SHIELD could only do so much to control a prince from another, more powerful realm.

The only two worth trusting alone were Romanoff and Barton, but since they'd joined the Avengers they'd decided to abruptly switch their loyalties.

"Heart is where the home is." Barton once mentioned off-hand, which was something Fury most certainly hadn't expected Hawkeye of all people to come out with.

So, no, the Avengers were not exactly quite what Fury had wanted them to be. But then, with Banner and Stark, he hadn't really expected them to become his picture perfect boy-band. He'd been surprised either of them had agreed at all.

Therefore, it was to great relief for everyone involved that Hill was met with the news that, no, the Avengers were not being called.

"They probably know something is wrong." Fury next stated with a sigh. It was hard to miss, actually. What was happening to the children in New Mexico was being broadcasted all over the world. "But they're just going to have to wait. If we can't find anything we'll bring Stark and Banner in, and maybe Romanoff to see whether she can trace this back to its source. Otherwise, they can stay in their own private pockets of the world enjoying their own problems. I don't want them here messing my neat little investigation up."

"Sir," Hill interrupted smartly. "If I may, but the child's eyes... They look almost too vivid. Almost like when-"

"Loki?" He filled in the gap, thinking back to the hypnotised icy blue eyes of the men the chaos god had placed under his destructive influence. "I had considered it."

"Perhaps it may be in our best interests to find Thor and see whether he recognises the magic."

Fury dismissed this with a sigh. "Thor isn't a magician like his brother. Rogers would likely be as much help as he would be." That is to say, none whatsoever.

"Then what are we going to do?"

Fury didn't rightly know. At the moment all they could do was wait for the doctors' reports and hope they find something to reverse the effects of whatever had infected the children soon. They weren't even sure it _was_ an infection, though it seemed to spread like one. They just had to hope it wasn't magic, else there was little they could actually do to stop it in its track.

"We'll just have to hope that it's isolated." Fury replied. They were running scans across the world now, checking for news reports and such to ensure that this was a single instance which was not going to spread rapidly across the world, stealing the life straight out of their children.

It was awful to behold. All the SHIELD agents who had come into contact with a child showing the symptoms could agree on that. It was almost as if, if Fury was going to be a little more poetic about it, something had stolen their very souls. They didn't react, they didn't acknowledge people that they knew, not even their own mothers. In fact, they didn't seem to hear or see or perceive in any manner. They just existed. There was no attempt at survival, no apparent brain process beyond the automatic breathing and blinking. They did not even move to eat and had to be hooked up to IVs. It was as if watching someone living in a coma state, only with their eyes wide open and their ability to stand on two legs retained. For all anyone knew, that was precisely what it was - maybe the children were trapped inside their own heads, screaming to get out.

But until they knew _what_ exactly had been done to these kids, there was a limited array of options available to SHIELD. Fury himself was just nervously anxious of the fact that, if it was Loki or any other hostile magician, they would not just stop at a tiny town in the middle of nowhere.

The fact that the town hit by this strange curse was the same which Thor had first come to Earth in had not been overlooked. They were trying to relate it back to the Bifrost site, somehow, but they had also been informed by Thor himself that the rainbow bridge connecting the two realms was still very much broken, so nothing was coming through on that end at least. So far, they were just not having any luck.

It wasn't until the facial recognition software - the same program which had allowed SHIELD a quick and easy method of locating Loki during the first stages of his failed invasion - pinged positive that anyone felt a slight bit more in control of the situation.

"He seems to be in some kind of disguise, sir," Hill informed Fury, making the agent send over the grainy CCTV images from Finland across to the computer screens the Director stood in front of.

"Poor disguise." Fury commented, since the face was almost 90% similar beyond the added freckles and a sharper profile. It could not be a coincidence. "Why there?"

"Perhaps it is where he intends to strike next?" Hill suggested, and, watching the images as they updated in real time - that of Loki Laufeyson grinning broad and strange, looking for all the world like he was happy to simply be where he was, interacting with children and playing in a frozen and increasingly dark landscape - made Fury feel uncomfortable and frightened. Evil wasn't supposed to look that ingenuously gleeful, especially when they were most certainly planning something devastating.

"Should we go get him, sir?"

Well, they had little choice otherwise. The sooner they moved, the less time Loki would have to make his next move. If he was behind the tragedy in New Mexico, then those innocent-eyed kids would be the next on his list. Fury couldn't allow himself to stand back and let that happen.

"Let's go." He ordered, and SHIELD followed.

\--

It was Baldr who alerted them all to the next unfortunate event to grace Asgard's running string of bad luck. Truly, this was not the best of weeks for any of them.

The timing was nothing short of disastrous, as Asgard had turned out for the passing of the warrior Leiptr, the body of whom Týr had brought home from Vanaheim after checking up on the wolf. He came home to recount that Fenrir was gone on the wind, but before he had left he had taken the life of the warrior's protégée.

And they had only just finished the funeral arrangements for the guards killed in Loki's escape. Like father like son, indeed.

Týr had reported back to the king and queen the birds had spoken of Fenrir's escape, but he was not wont to trust them. The creatures surviving on that island were not creatures to associate oneself with; their squawks were too mocking, too maliciously delighted, for Týr to stomach their presence. He had only listened to their whispers as far as he was able, but in their age they had developed their own secret code that he was hard-pressed to decipher.

"There was something about a ghost and a creature from the sand," He tried to tell Odin and Frigga upon arrival home, but they could interpret the words no better than he. "And beings of blue." They couldn't even be sure whether these were the correct words or not, but Týr was more likely to understand these things than anyone, except perhaps Fenrir himself.

"Did they speak of where the wolf went?" Odin asked, but if they had the one-handed god had not heard it.

The funeral had been set for the next day, and the ceremony took place without a hitch. It was only after, when Baldr had been the one charged with placing one of Leiptr's weapon in the vault as a show of respect, that anything was found to be amiss.

The days since Jack Frost left their land had been largely uneventful for the people, besides a general tone of unease and the private bickering of the king and queen over varying subjects regarding their lost son and his family, such as whether it was appropriate to get into contact with Hel or whether to leave well enough alone. They had been trying, but each time they had failed to reach her.

But there was always something that came on the black sails of the future that was determined to ruin their peace.

In a way, it was a relief to find that the winds of life were finally blowing, since the stalemate that Asgard had been stuck in was starting become oppressive and tense. At least this way, with something coming to wakefulness and shaking the boat, they could try and get some control over the situation.

"What is it?" Odin had asked as soon as Baldr had returned, panting for breath with his blue eyes horrified, shaking with the speed he had pushed himself to achieve so that he could get the message to his father quicker than before.

"The vault has been broken into!" He exclaimed, making his audience gasp and start to murmur amid themselves.

"Is there anything missing?" The king of the gods replied, and Baldr sorrowfully nodded his head.

"You must come and see." He charged of his father, and Odin nodded, gesturing for Týr to follow behind him and Frigga.

They hurried after the young blond, panic rising the closer they came to the weapons vault and the more hurried Baldr's steps became. There were so many powerful objects hidden away behind those doors that it almost didn't matter what precisely had been taken since all the artefacts could bring worlds to their knees with little effort. Anyone with their hands on a single of these collected weapons were to be considered a threat.

Baldr threw open the entrance and led the troop inside. Upon the floor there were strewn two more of Asgard's finest protectors, slaughtered where they stood and tossed aside carelessly. Their blood splattered across the walls, vicious and bright and terrifying, but it was not the scariest thing to be observed in the vault.

The third son of Odin needn't have bothered pointing a shaking hand towards the pedestal where once a relic lay, on account of the fact it's very absence was as glaring as the corpses upon the ground.

Breaths were caught in throats, and Frigga immediately came to cling on to Odin's sleeve. The king of Asgard wasn't proud enough to say that he didn't grip her closer to him for as much his own comfort and reassurance as hers.

Where now was empty air once stood the Infinity Gauntlet, complete with the six gems which granted the wielder unlimited power. Odin had not found a problem in keeping the set together, since there had never been a successful theft of the weapons vault in any living memory, and his own alone stretched back centuries. But then, the god now considered, it only took once.

In the silence thoughts were as loud as words, and Odin could feel Frigga's dread at his side, Baldr's blind panic nearby, and the seething anger of Týr behind him - Týr, who had already lost too much, and who was now forced to say goodbye to more good friends. As a soldier, as a trainer, he knew too many of the guards much too well. Whilst the loss of these two men was less of a blow than saying farewell to Leiptr, this along with the funeral today it seemed like nothing short of a personal attack. He was fuming in his ire, desperate to find who was responsible. It was also clear that he had already made up his mind regarding who was to blame. The king of the gods had, too. The answer was merely obvious.

"Only Loki knows how to slip by our defences so easily," He stated, picking up the sword of Leiptr which Baldr had dropped in the centre of the vault in order to turn on his heel and run back towards the funeral wake.

"Husband," Frigga said emotively, and Odin felt for his wonderful wife, he truly did. There were no other mothers in the entirety of creation who had been forced with the reality that her child, the creature she had raised with so much love, devotion and affection, would bring about the end. It was only rational she would fight for him even when that terrible truth came to unfold before her very eyes. "Please do not think that way. There may be others out there we do not know about-"

"That chose now, of all times, to steal away under our noses and take from us the only thing which could grant any wish, change reality, enslave the universe to their own will?" Týr argued, much out of place before the Queen of Asgard, but his input was valid and, despite her distress, Frigga could not argue with his statement.

"I always wondered how he would grow to have power enough to lead such an army." Odin mused in support, and his wife tore away from him to stand by the single son who remained in Asgard.

"Let us first consider the facts and the prophecies," Baldr pleaded, begging his father to try and see reason. They could not point fingers so rashly without evidence, surely. He stood here now, arguing for his lost brother in place of Thor, so far away on Midgard and unaware of the tense exchange, and his mother who seemed too besides herself in anger and bereavement to form a coherent counterpoint that wasn't laden with colourful words and imaginative methods of flagellation that she would happily administer upon her second son's enemies at a moment's notice. Even if said enemy was her own husband.

"What is there to consider, child?" Odin asked, but Baldr was interrupted from answering by a sudden outburst by Týr.

"Loki is guilty!" He cried, still besides himself with grief from the interment, from losing one so dear to him - a man he had considered a friend, a fellow warrior, as close to him as a brother. Already having been faced with losing a brother once, Baldr felt his pain keenly.

When he had been told Loki had fallen from the Bifrost, gone forever, Baldr had been racked by his anguish. He had not even been able to see his brother upon Loki's return, on account of the fact the man had soon been placed behind bars.

Baldr had been ordered to stay away from him. They were all wary of Loki and Baldr in the same room, for obvious reasons. The three brothers believed it to be ridiculous, but others distrusted Loki more than Baldr and Thor did, and so much so that it sometimes surprised the younger god to tears for his sibling. His dark-haired brother had always laughed at him, telling him not to be so sensitive - it did not bother him, after all. Baldr never believed him. And then Loki committed suicide.

And then he returned home, safe and breathing. _Changed_. Baldr hadn't been let out of sight for fear he'd try to visit his mad brother.

It was this age-old paranoia which he called on now.

"What of me?" He spoke into the echoing room, and the following silence was palpable. His mother gripped his arm, and he let her. He placed his hand upon Frigga's own, covering her dainty fingers with his larger, paler digits and offering as much comfort as he felt he could muster. "I'm alive." He said. "The prophecies cannot be true, because I am alive."

"Prophecies are not always accurate," Odin spoke softly, voice wretched with fear. "You need to be continually wary, my son, even now. You do not know when he will strike."

" _If_ he will!" He tried to argue.

"Perhaps it is not literal. Seers do not see true future, they see impressions. They _feel_ the future," Odin explained, as a seer himself where Baldr was not. "Perhaps they divined a brother of Loki would be irreparably hurt, and Loki would refuse to help right this wrong. Perhaps," he considered slowly. "It was not you, Baldr, but Thor. It is possible the seer knew of Loki and Thor's closeness and believed it was a bond which could not be broken. If this is true, then this is a part of their story which has already come to pass."

"That of Loki running, of being captured and punished," Frigga inserted, seemingly despite herself and looking as if she wished to stop her treacherous tongue. "That too has happened."

"But his children! Narfi, Vali? They do not exist! He only has his four animals. What of that?"

"Think of this as a riddle, Baldr," Týr inserted, eyes gleaming with a revelation. "He is the child of magic, and magic was bound in his body. Is that not what the prophecy foretold: a father trapped within the guts of his son?"

"Yes, but," Baldr tried, faltering under the clever deductions. His father stopped his protests from there on.

"Prophecy is not always literal." He reiterated careful, ever so aware of his child's delicate emotions. Baldr rather felt like he had been flogged by their cutting words.

"There _were_ children, Baldr," His mother then informed him, making him feel like weeping at the very concept. "Half-human and mortal. They were lost to him centuries ago, one permanently, and one only misplaced. Is that not what the legends also dictate?"

Yes. There was one child turned into a wolf, driven mad and set to attack his brother. The second child would not survive the attack.

"I didn't know." Baldr said, because it was true. Every time he began to believe he knew his brother, something new would appear and knock him from his assumptions. "I didn't know."

Odin came to put a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye and meeting his gaze with his own sorrowful expression. "You will be safe, and he will be stopped." He seemed to misinterpret Baldr's sadness, his fear, and it made the younger god wish for nothing more than solitude and a place of his own to let loose his tears and his anger. To punch the wall, to scream to the ceiling, to wish his brother home. "No harm will befall Asgard. This I swear."

"He has the gauntlet." Baldr reminded them, as if they could ignore the empty pocket of space where the treasure and its jewels should have been. "He has the gauntlet and we cannot find him."

"We will." Odin swore, and Týr called out in determined agreement. Frigga, instead of verbally replying, curled herself up around the body of her son and dug her head into his shoulder. He clutched her around the waist tightly, wishing to console them both even when there was nothing they could do to make them feel calm or happy. "He cannot hide from us forever. He will not want to, now he has such power."

"How will we stop him?" Was Frigga's question, muffled by Baldr's shirt. This seemed to give her husband pause.

"I do not know." He glanced around the room, as if there were another relic which could match the power of the stolen artefact. There were plenty with equal power, certainly, but nothing which could best the glove. "But if there is a way, we will discover it. We will not allow the sly one to win."

But, somehow, the words intended to make Baldr feel better only made everything seem worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you all for the kudos and the comments and please don't ever stop.


	18. Blood of my Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always reminded on tumblr that Jack is beautiful and funny and ridiculous and I feel like my writing is doing him a great injustice, but oh well.

To put it bluntly, Hel was not in the best of states and in the worst of moods. In truth, she felt completely unable to face her siblings right now.

Having been alerted to the reunion of Fenrir and Jackson Lokison though the spell she place upon the young spirit, she had come almost directly from one hostile brother to another. Jörmungandr at least, without his magic as he was, posed no real threat to her. Despite the fact his words were knives and he wielded them with deadly efficiency, she was more than capable of taking it in good stride. She wasn't happy, and she rather wished she could go home so to lash out at something, but she had more urgent matters than her own feelings and her childish brother to attend to.

And then there was Fenrir. Fenrir who, if he decided to become aggressive as the great serpent had done, could quickly become something to be concerned over. Even at first glance, he was clearly broad and strong, no matter how injured he was. Magic or no magic, Hel would be in trouble. The wolf was not something to be underestimated, nor deterred by her power.

She called out to him when she realised he was holding the spirit Jack Frost within his grip, struggling against the tight fist around his frosted, hooded-top. Hel, for the first time, realised how much danger she put the boy in. Not that it truly mattered, since he was already dead, but he _did_ seemed more alive than a true ghost. He could be touched so easily. However, she should have thought what would happen if her older siblings turned on their more violent urges, their more baser emotions, that screamed out for revenge for the suffering they had endured these last thousand years. But she hadn't thought at all; for all her intelligence, she had never considered that her family would turn against her.

"Drop him, Fenrir." She demanded, refusing to be startled when burning yellow eyes twisted her way in confusion, in fury, and she wondered whether he would even recognise Hel when he observed her. After all, if not for the lingering traces of magic which she could feel - the same type which she had trailed back to Jörmungandr, and that of which she had been told came from their own mother - than Hel would not have realised Fenrir was who he was, either. He was too large, too strange, to be the son of Loki.

Hel had never been told that he had golden eyes, which now stared her down as his fingers slipped from Jack's top and allowed the white-haired creature to jerk away from him and utilise the wind to flit safely to the side.

Loki had always said Fenrir's eyes were brown. Apparently the transformation hadn't quite been complete. Now that she thought of it, Jörmungandr's teeth when he had grinned terribly had been closer to fangs than human.

Fenrir, she presumed, looked more like their mother. Hel and Jörmungandr were their father's children, almost carbon copies of the man - as if someone had taken his face and stolen it for his young. But Fenrir was different - square more than sharp, and impossibly tall.

"Hello, brother," she said, as he came towards her, seeming as if in a daze. He was frightening to her, frazzled and aggravated as she was, but she didn't back down as he approached closer and closer. She restrained herself from wincing when he raised an arm, smothering her emotions deep down behind her masks, and watched with no shortage of fear as his hand came towards her.

Yet, for all his posturing towards Jack and his intimidating stature, he was gentle as he stroked two fingers from her cheekbone to her chin, and studied her face with surprise and... and tenderness.

"Hel." He stated. She barely had time to nod an affirmative before he had her wrapped up securely in his arms, one hand gripping her around her waist whilst the other came to clutch at the back of her head. She was, needless to say, speechless.

Hel attempted to pull away from her brother, but his helpless voice, close to her ear as he hunched over himself to curl his body around hers, stopped her as he pleaded, "Don't."

She rested her head against his chest, and clung onto the shirt which fit him ill. Clearly loaned, just  a touch too small,  it was ugly and it had stretched to a distorted shape. However, with how she was feeling now, tired and worn thin with such confusing, conflicting moods, it seemed almost as if the most comfortably texture she had ever encountered.

They broke away only so Fenrir could grip her arms and outstretch his own to observe her, eyes raking across the pale features, intrigued and amazed. Hel returned it, feeling so much more at ease, glad to learn that there was someone left in her family who had not come to hate her.

"Hel," he said again, as if he could hardly believe it. "You are no longer a child."

"Nor you, brother." She returned carefully, to which he only nodded. He winced as she stretched her fingers to touch his wounds, torn from their stitchings and bloody, but he did not resist when she pressed a hand to the most serious of them.

Sparks danced across his skin, healing him only to the point of scarring - the wound was too old and made by a magical artefact; there was little else she could do for him now. However, he would, at least, be healthy.

"Thank you," he smiled, but it seemed to suit his face ill. It was not an expression well-practised. However, that did not make it any less genuine.

An awkward shifting of snow reminded them that they were not alone, and were in the presence of a fellow Lokison. The two older siblings glanced back to see Jack on his tiptoes, nervously fluttering around the prone body of Nótt, the Vanr who had guided Fenrir this far through the wilderness.

"Did I kill him?" The boy asked, realising their attention was now on him. "He's not dead, right? I'm not imagining that he's breathing."

"He lives, Jack." Hel reassured the boy, stepping away from her larger brother but sending him a questioning look. "He knows your face." She reminded the wolf, but Fenrir had clearly not overlooked such a thing.

"Kill him." She concluded, and the larger of the three found no counterargument besides his own disgustingly sentimental soul. Even then, the emotions coursing through him were only remnants of a time long gone, and the child of Vanaheim had only lasted so long in Fenrir's presence because he was lucky enough to remind the great wolf of his red-haired brother somewhat.

"Fine." Fenrir said, stalking towards his now-prey, but a small, pale body got in the way.

"Wait, what?" Jack exclaimed, throwing his arms open and clutching his staff tightly in his hands. "No! You can't just do that to a person. He hasn't done anything to you!"

"He tried to kill me." Fenrir reminded him, but Jack only huffed.

"He didn't _succeed_."

"Move, boy. He's dangerous." Fenrir tried to swerve around the white-haired child, but the spirit utilised his limited control over the natural seiðr in the world to continually get in his way. Immediately, the rage which had quelled upon the first sight of his sister bubbled back up in Fenrir's stomach, and it itched to lash out towards the ghost afore him. "Do not test me." He threatened, waving his claws against the air in an attempt to remind Jack how close he had been to being mauled at Fenrir's hand.

"Fenrir," Hel said again, once more being the block between her brothers, keeping them from grievously harming one another. "Please."

"You're not getting through me." Jack inserted, icy eyes frozen solid with his determination. "You're not killing him."

Fenrir glared at the season sprite, the spirit of winter, and saw properly the danger in him. A hand on his arm - pale and no less icy, but with the touch of death about her - had the wolf glancing to his sister, so grown and beautiful and different to the mewling babe he remembered her as, and she shook her head minutely.

"It is not worth it." She told him, referring to the fight that would inevitably spark between the wolf and the sprite if neither of them backed down. Jack clearly was not going to be that man, what with the moral high-ground he had perched himself upon.

"What shall we do with him, then?"  Fenrir glared at Jack as he said it, and Hel seemed to find it appropriate to likewise look to the youngest member of the mismatched group for an answer. It was the price he would have to pay to keep Nótt alive.

"I don't know," Jack spluttered after glancing between them twice before he realised what they expected from him. "But you can't just _kill_ people because they're in the way. Isn't that exactly what Loki is doing?"

Fenrir shrugged, ignorant of the way Hel stiffened. These, it seemed, were magic words. Unfortunately, they had no effect on the second Lokison, who in Asgardian upbringing saw little wrong with such a course of action. He therefore did not realise when Hel slipped away from him and looked to Jack, conflicted.

"You will need to do better than appeal to my _morals_ , spirit." Fenrir spat, whilst Hel fretted behind him. He did not see her. Jack, on the other hand, split his attention between his two siblings equally, realising he was getting through to Hel but not to Fenrir. Hel, it seemed, had something to prove in not being like her father. The wolf had yet to realise such an idol was an unwise one.

"He helped you, didn't he?"

"He turned on me in an instant." Fenrir reminded him snippily, his nose scrunching up with his short temper. "I have no time for such people."

Jack had to move in front of the broad man and hold his hands up once again as Fenrir attempted to weave his path by him.

"We have other options, don't we?" Jack asked this to Hel, desperately hoping she had a solution where Jack did not. "You have magic, Hel. Can't you wipe his memories?"

"Certainly," she replied viciously. "If you intend for me to completely destroy his mind. That is easily done."

Jack sighed, moved in front of Fenrir _again_. "Will you stop it?" he asked, exasperated. Fenrir only grinned. His smile was all canines.

Feeling about as grumpy as Fenrir looked, Jack's last resort was to quite literally shoot a harmless ice blast the wolf's way when he tried to push the spirit away, and said spirit then went to kneel weightlessly (but pointedly) on the back of the unconscious Vanr lying on the forest floor. He pointed the shepherd's hook of his staff at Fenrir, who was wiping the ice from his eyes with a ferocious snarl, and glared him down. It wasn't all posturing - it was Jack daring him to make a move.

"For the love of Auðumbla." Fenrir eventually cursed after a tense moment of nothing, in which Jack prepared himself for a fight comparable to the scrap between himself and Pitch in Antarctica. He let up, however, instead of attacking. Off to the side, Hel clicked her tongue impatiently.

"Perhaps we all need to sort things out between us." She said drolly, whilst Fenrir chuckled darkly, falsely. The youngest living Lokison took it as his cue to step away from Nótt's unconscious body and collapse, instead, on a nearby mound of earth. Under his touch the frost danced across the floor immediately under him.

"What I would give for a drink." Fenrir announced with a strain to his voice. Jack could sympathise. Going by the gleam in Hel's eyes, the coming talk was not going to be pleasant.

\--

Jack had sat through a _chat_ with Hel before, and it wasn't nice then. With someone as openly suspicious as Fenrir glaring at him all the while, it was even less so. However, it was also a good thing this meeting was happening, since there were one or two things he was still a little unclear on.

One thing he wished to bring up was an absence in their company that Jack very suddenly remembered Hel had promised to be there.

"Where's Jörmungandr?" He asked, garnering a cold look from his sister which Jack did not believe he deserved.

"He has not been receptive to my pleads. I believe he dislikes me." She replied slowly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Fenrir stated, despite having spent the last twenty minutes stubbornly keeping his mouth shut. He wasn't a man of many words, it seemed. However, regarding his serpent brother it appeared as if he would make an exception. "Jörmungandr is not capable of dislike. There is no bone designed for distaste in his entire body."

"Apparently he grew one." Hel returned sharply.

"That sucks." Jack stated honestly, but the woman did not seem to like his tone.

"Perhaps _you_ should try. He is completely unreasonable."

"What did he say to you, sister?" Fenrir asked.

Hel huffed. Answered: "Nothing. He simply said he would not pick sides. I could not persuade him otherwise."

"Sides?"

Of course, Jack realised - Fenrir had been completely cut off from the rest of the universe and all the workings therein. No one had yet had chance to explain the situation to him regarding their shared and increasingly unbalanced father. Hel took it upon herself to give him the short version, glancing swiftly over Loki's spiralling sanity and apocalyptic overtures - telling him Loki was planning something bigger than ever before; something truly evil. As she spoke, the wolf's face become steadily more black.

"You wish to stop him?" He asked, and Hel nodded. Fenrir took a few breaths, before returning the gesture. "Very well. Whilst I long for revenge against my enemies, I would be hard pressed to do so once dead."

"A better attitude than Jörmungandr's." Hel admitted. "He's quite willing to watch the realms fall apart."

Anger shifted to sorrow so promptly on Fenrir's face that Jack half convinced himself that there had never been fury there at all. All that was left was a piteous grief that seemed to consume his whole being, sloping his large shoulders and striking tragedy upon his features.

"I would fear meeting this brother you talk of," he said, gazing to his sister. "I know I would not recognise him from the boy I knew."

"He would love you." Hel confided softly, but it seemed to do no good. However, instead of wallowing in his misery, Fenrir had a different approach to sadness. He did not face it at all, in fact, instead opting to repress his pesky emotions and moved on. To do this, he cast his eyes to Jack with a wave of his head.

"Is this truly another brother of mine?"

"Half," Jack nodded, whilst Hel silently confirmed the fact.

Fenrir curious brand of humour emerged as he laughed and took the time to observe Jack properly. "Our father bred with a spirit? I suppose it is not one of the stranger things he has copulated with."

"I'm half human." Jack protested, nose wrinkling in disgust though he knew enough of the stories abounding about Loki's promiscuity to be aware they were not all completely false.

"Oh? Then why are you like-"

"He died, Fenrir." Hel interceded. This instantaneously killed Fenrir's smirk, and his expression became the same serious mask as before.

"So you are a genuine spirit?"

Jack nodded, but Fenrir was not done.

"How did you die?"

Jack wondered whether he was supposed to be offended or not, but judging by the way Hel did not quickly go to scold her brother or defend Jack's supposedly sensitive emotions, she was as curious as her brother.

"I drowned, trapped under a frozen lake."

"An unfortunate end."

Jack bristled. "I saved my sister!" He declared, which immediately caught their interest. _Their_ sister, too, he suddenly remembered.

"What of you now? You clearly did not remain dead."

"I was resurrected by the Man in the Moon. Do you know him?" Hel made a noise indicating that she knew _of_ him, rather than any more of a person connection. Fenrir, in reply, merely shook his head.

"He made you of the ice which killed you? Why?"

Jack didn't need to think to answer this now. He has spent the last three-hundred years asking the same question, and was now proud to say he had finally come across the correct answer. "I'm a Guardian. I protect the children of Midgard."

Fenrir made a surprised noise. "Well, that's... noble of you. What of your sandy friend? Also a protector of the younglings on Midgard? Did he die too?"

"No. The Sandman is... well, I don't know what Sandy is." Jack admitted sheepishly.

"And you," Fenrir suddenly turned to his sister who, instead of starting at the unexpected shift in attention, simply raised an eyebrow in the wolf's direction. "What was your plan? Why did you send the ghost after me?"

She made a vague gesture, suggesting that perhaps she should feel remorse, but was more guilty about the fact she did not. "He was one of Loki's lost sons. Put you both in the same realm and there was a potential to draw Loki back out into the open. It was only a slim chance," she snapped when Jack began to protest being used as bait. "But more of one than if I had come to find you, and Jack Jörmungandr. Loki is not looking for either of us, since he knows where we are. What's more, Jack found you first. I trusted him to do so again, and swiftly."

He had succeeded as well, need Jack remind her.

"How did you find me?" Fenrir asked, to which Jack shrugged.

"There's a lot of information on Norse myths on Earth. I just got lucky, I guess."

"Twice." The wolf pointed out, but Jack had an answer for that.

"You're a distinctive guy. It's not hard to figure out who I'm looking for when you breezed into town naked, bleeding and _ginormous_." Fenrir couldn't argue with that, but instead turned to another subject.

"If you are of Midgard, how can you understand me?"

This threw Jack for a pause. "Actually, good point."

"Me." Hel inserted, waving her hand and rolling her green eyes at their stupidity. "I can cast more than one spell at any one time, Jack."

The spirit of winter thought to the sting of the locator charm she had placed on him days ago, before scowling at her. "Could you not do that?"

"It is good she did." Fenrir defended his sister. "I know little English, and I doubt you know any words from Vanaheim." He cast his eyes over to the fallen Vanr, as if just remembering he was still there. Nótt, still unconscious and breathing, thankfully, was subjected to a very contemplative look. "I would like us to return to the original problem, however. If I cannot kill him, what, precisely, am I supposed to do about the fact he knows me? Take him along as a prisoner?"

"No!" Jack exclaimed, the very thought cruel towards the man who had rationally reacted to a nightmare coming to life. It could have been handled better, perhaps, but he could hardly be blamed for his instinctive urge to panic.

Fenrir and Hel were watching Jack again, waiting for him to find a better solution. Jack was still stumped.

"What would happen if Vanaheim found out who you were?" He eventually thought to ask, and interrupting his siblings before they could open their clever mouths to answer. "And if it's so bad, why don't we just leave?"

"Vanaheim is connected to Asgard, did you not know? They are in close contact." Fenrir snapped.

"How are they meant to do that? The Bifrost is broken."

"What?" The wolf snapped. "How?" In these two short words, he reminded his brother and sister how much he did not know - how far Fenrir had been left behind.

"It's a long story." Jack said weakly, as Hel reached out to put a hand on her brother's large knee.

"Perhaps it will not be so bad." She said, though her tone was resigned. She did not want to leave this loose end anymore than Fenrir did. It was putting her family at too much risk, and she most definitely did not like the fact that simply leaving the Vanr was the better option here. Otherwise, Jack would kick up a fuss and the family would be further torn apart. She did not think any of them could cope with that. Fenrir had been so happy to see her, as she had been excited to meet with Jörmungandr. And she could only assume that Jack must have also been anxious to reunite his blood relatives, else he wouldn't have gone searching for them in the first place. No, it was better that they maintain this relative peace they had all fought so hard for.

"What else am I ignorant about?" Fenrir then asked, which brought up a very interesting set of queries. If he did not know of the broken Bifrost, how much farther back did his unawareness stretch?

"You know of Ragnarök, of course?"

Fenrir shrugged. "The word is certainly familiar. Týr often spoke of the word like a curse."

"It _is_ a curse. A plague on our family."

Fenrir looked to Jack for clarification on Hel's cryptic words. Jack could only shake his head. "It's the reason they took you away from your family, and it's what's happening now."

"It is why Loki is seeking to destroy the realms."

Fenrir drew a hand over his face slowly, chewing on his lip as he digested these words. They didn't seem to settle well in his stomach, causing his expression to scrunch up unpleasantly. "But we're going to stop him?" He eventually stated.

"Yes." Jack nodded, whilst Hel's grip on his knee became tighter. He met her fingers with his own and squeezed.

"Alright." He nodded, but his look was distant.

"Alright?" Jack asked, even if just to snap him out of the daze. It didn't seem to work, as Fenrir simply nodded again. Wherever his mind was, it clearly was not with them in the woods on Vanaheim, but somewhere further afield, terrifying him, making him hold back. Despite that, he still agreed. That was something to be thankful for, Jack supposed.

What _did_ snap Fenrir out of his thoughts were sudden rustling from the previously dead silence of the trees. He sniffed the air whilst Hel sat straight. Meanwhile, Jack had jerked to his feet, leg catching in his haste to stand. He quickly regained his balance and grabbed his staff, pointing it at the shadows in which the rustling was originating from. The sounds got louder and more rapid, as if something approaching them at a decent enough speed, and Jack shot back as something burst through from the undergrowth.

"What is that?" Fenrir asked, as Jack stooped to run his fingers through a puddle of what had been thrust from the bushes towards them. He recognised it immediately.

"It's sand-" he said, just in time for Sandman to throw himself into the clearing and look around wildly until his eyes met Jack's. Relief slumped his shoulders, made him look like he was going to collapse, and Jack immediately kneeled in front of him.

"Sandy? What are you doing here?" Whatever it was must be urgent. Sandy looked exhausted from running; from existing in a land where his powers were dimmed due to the distance between himself, the Man in the Moon, and the children who believed. Jack was feeling the exact same strain.

The guardian of dreams made some elaborate gestures, crazed pictograms dancing above his head, but panic made him speed through them too fast for Jack to follow. He didn't understand a word of what his fellow Guardian was attempting to convey.

Fortunately, one of the three gathered Lokisons did. Fenrir drew Sandy's attention from the spirit to the wolf, speaking to him sternly in accented English: "Repeat."

A similar set of charades were played out again, and Jack glanced between the two, watching both Sandman desperately trying to get someone to understand him, along with how the golden sand glinted in Fenrir's yellow eyes.

When he was done, Sandy let out a breath, collapsing backwards where Jack caught him in his arms. The tiny man rested against Jack's folded legs, keeping a steady eye on Fenrir as the wolf prepared to translate.

"The moon?" He questioned, encouraged when Sandy nodded. "The moon got into contact with," he struggled with the English, having to keep to the Midgardian language to ensure Sandy was in the loop. Apparently, only Jack had been blessed by the joys of Hel's spell. Whilst he could understand others, and everyone could understand him, Fenrir did not have the same luck. He kept to a language he knew Sandy would understand so that he could ensure he was replaying the message correctly. It was lucky, therefore, that images traversed all languages.

"The moon got into contact with the _group_ ," he stressed, gesturing to both Jack and Sandy.

"The Guardians?" Jack guessed, and Fenrir nodded.

"It spoke to the Guardians and said that children were in... _danger_." He switched back to the spoken word of Vanaheim, though the only noticeable difference to Jack was a clearer accent. "That is what you Guardians do, is it not? Protect the children."

Jack nodded a confirmation, whilst Fenrir returned to his stunted translation.

"He," the wolf pointed at Sandman, "Was sent because he would travel faster due to no... _tunnels_?"

"Bunny." Jack assumed, speaking hurriedly and waving his arm. "There won't be any underground tunnels on a different for him to get around quickly. And North and Tooth are likely blown off their feet by everything already. Let's return to the children part. They're in danger?"

"Yes." Fenrir said, alongside Sandy's tired nod. "Empty children."

The words, enigmatic as they were, sent terrible chills down Jack's spine.

"What does that mean?" Hel asked, sounding closer to curious than concerned. But then, these weren't her children, nor her life on the line. These were Jack's, and the Guardians'. Something was happening, something horrifying, and he wasn't there to help.

"A message from the moon," Fenrir concluded slowly. "'Protect the children. Protect the children'."

 _That_ made up his mind, as if he hadn't already decided on his next course of action. He stood up straight, pushing Sandy to standing with an icy breeze as he did so, glancing to the body on the floor, then to Fenrir and Hel who were watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Grab him." Jack ordered of his older brother, with no room for protest from the wolf. "And get moving. You got a snowglobe, Sandy?" The other Guardian nodded, presenting his prize.

"Where are we going?" Fenrir asked, and a stupider question had likely never crossed the man's lips in all his long life.

"We're going to save the children." Jack said, as Sandman tossed the snowglobe and jumped through the whirling portal it produced. "We're going _home_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much easier to write. Probably because I veered sharply away from plot again. Stupid plot, getting in the way of everything.


	19. These Cindered Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer again! Thanks for staying with me, guys. I know this is outrageously lengthy now.

"There are stories about a snake with the same name as you." Ruth informed Jörmungandr as she trailed into the room after her younger brothers, who charged around the kitchen yelling as part of their imaginary game.

"I thought I told you to go play." Grace said, glancing up from the newspaper and sipping her coffee. She scolded the boys for being so loud, whilst Ruth came to sit at the table between them, placing a book on the tabletop.

"We were. But then I saw this."

Jörmungandr had been excused from the hospital days ago, fully healed and with no excuse to hang around any longer. He was spending his nights in the forest but he didn't tell Grace that nor any of the children as they would only worry. Instead, he showed up at breakfast time to keep them company, smiled, pretended for their sakes he had slept under a roof. So far none of them had told him to go away, even taking him on trips as they went to see the sights in Finland on their holiday, so he continued to selfishly invade in on their lives. Whether he hadn't been kicked out thanks to Grace believing she owed him, or whether it was out of genuine friendship, was not entirely clear to him, and, truthfully, he didn't not mind either way so long as he it meant he was allowed to continuously return as each morning dawned.

"Where did you get this book?" Jörmungandr asked, staring at the hefty tome. It was an encyclopaedia, thick with pages covering all topics, and Ruth pointed to his own name.

"I brought it from home. I was reading about the paganism you told us about, and I spotted you."

"She likes facts." Grace informed him, but the snake was looking at where the child was etching her finger across the page. She read aloud.

"It says, 'Jörmungandr, son of Loki, is a serpent of the sea of Earth, long enough to wrap himself around the entire planet and bite his tail.'." Ruth enlightened the entire room. Harry paused in his play as  soon as he heard Jörmungandr's name.

"Why would Jör bite his own tail? He doesn't even have one." Harry checked, just to make sure.

"Where does the tail begin and the body end on a snake?" Chris inserted. Not even Jörmungandr - the very serpent they spoke of - could answer that one. He shrugged in time with Grace, and wrapped his arm around Harry when he climbed onto his knees. Together, the four of them listened as Ruth continued.

"'He will help his father bring about Ragnarök'." The girl looked to Jörmungandr for affirmation. "That's the Norse version of the end of the world, right?"

He grimaced, but nodded.

"Well, that suddenly took on a distinctly sombre tone," Grace chided, gesturing for her daughter to close the book and talk about something else. "What do you want to do today?"

"Can we skate again? The lake is still frozen!" Harry pleaded.

"I just thought it was interesting because the snake in the book has a sister called Hel, like you do, Jör. Were you named after the serpent?"

"No." Jörmungandr admitted, because he _was_ the serpent; he had not been named in his own honour. "But, to further astonish you, my brother is called Fenrir and my father Loki."

"I wouldn't have thought it would be very good for pagans to name their children after the underworld gods." Ruth pointed out, and Jörmungandr agreed.

"It certainly isn't common practice."

Since she hadn't closed the book, Harry got a good look at some of the illustrations. He pointed to a sketch done of _Loki's Brood_ , displaying a wolf, a serpent, and a pale corpse of a girl. He ran his small hand over the snake and said, "You look like a monster from the old maps."

"That is him. The monsters, all kinds of sea monsters, are Jörmungandr in various forms."

"You believe he's in the sea?" Grace asked, intrigued by his religion and beliefs, but he shook his head with a smile. Of course he didn't believe he was in the sea, since he was sitting around a hotel breakfast table.

"I believe that he used to be, and sailors saw him." Jörmungandr revealed, despite his head telling him not to. However, his tongue seemed to escape with the truth when Harry looked up to him with his big eyes, searching for answers.

"What happened to him?" The youngster questioned.

"Only two people know - himself and his sister."

"Come," Grace suddenly said, snapping Jörmungandr's gaze away from the book. "I thought you wanted to go skating, Hal?"

"Hal is not short for Harry," the serpent said confused, simply to have the same perplexity shot back at him by the boy's mother as he scrambled down from Jörmungandr's lap.

"Yes, it is." She said, leaving no room for argument.

\--

Once they were all wrapped up tightly (bar Jörmungandr, who was clad in thin clothing from a charity bin and had refused the coat which was offered him), the little family set out on the trek towards the lake, not even pausing when the snow started to float down from the skies.

"Do you not see the sprites, Harry?" Jörmungandr asked, lifting up the child and showing him the higher branches as they passed under them. Harry still didn't believe him about the ever-moving winter imps, and, with Grace watching, the snake didn't push to enlighten his observations.

They had not started skating by mid-day, since there had been official looking people in green fleeces telling them to stay off the water.

"It's dangerous." They informed Jörmungandr in Finnish, but they needn't had bothered - it was clear even from a distance that the ice was too thin.

"No skating today, cyprinid." He said, ruffling the boy's hair. "'Tis unsafe for children."

Instead, they had started a game of tag to keep the cold at bay. Whilst Grace warmed herself in a nearby cafe, Jörmungandr kept watch of the children outside.

"Jör!" Harry called out when the red-head was preoccupied throwing a snowball at Chris (which he ensured to deliberately miss, making the boy laugh at his pathetic aim).

"Killi?" He asked, just to see the little boy hold out a hand for him to inspect. As he unfolded it, Jörmungandr saw his own blue bead that his father had gifted to him all those years ago. "Thank you, botia."

"You dropped it." Harry explained. "I found it over there."

"It must have fallen out of my hair. Here," he reached out for a lock of Harry's blond curls, taking a moment to weave it in securely. "You look after it."

"Really?" The boy said, reaching up to touch it. "Thank you!" For his troubles, the serpent received a secure embrace about his waist, and he immediately scooped the child up and swung him around.

"How come he gets a bead?" Chris immediately harked, Ruth childishly echoing the sentiment.

" _Ferdi han er min_." He instinctively said, but the children didn't understand. "Finders keepers." He stated, instead of translating. However much they pouted, it didn't take the other young humans long to find a distraction for their attentions.

The game lasted an hour, with a break in the middle to buy a hot drink and sit for a moment with their mother. Besides that brief interlude, however, their play continued uninterrupted. Harry was throwing Jörmungandr's balance by grabbing onto his leg by the time the clock turned to eleven, but he let go when the wind picked up suddenly, unnaturally.

They all looked up to see metal contraptions zooming overhead, too low and too loud, making the child cling once more to him, now even tighter, and dig his face in the worn denim of his loaned jeans.

Jörmungandr watched them land near him and gape open wide, to reveal a small army of men wrapped up snugly in black, layered with protection and helmeted with darkened visors. They looked almost like aliens, coming down from the sky and advancing upon the local inhabitants with hostile intent. And these men certainly were hostile, as was apparent by their very large weapons.

"Get behind me, barb," Jörmungandr insisted, eyes narrowed and body tense as the black-clad men started circling him like predators. He was unused to the feeling of being prey. He found it suited him ill.

They were definitely focusing on _him_ , the snake realised, as he glanced around the area and saw pedestrians and shoppers huddling close to each other, but not at the business end of these strangers' aggression. That, it seemed, was reserved for Jörmungandr alone. Not that he wasn't used to humans ganging up on him, or trying to hunt him down - he was usually some sort of sea terror when they did so, however.

A man then stepped down after the others from the flying machine - the plane, Jörmungandr was aware, having had enough of them crash into his oceans - and he was set apart from the rest by the lack of a visor covering his face. He, instead, had an eye-patch and a severe expression. He was clearly the leader of the assembled group.

"Loki! How nice to see you on _my_ planet again." He called out, looking directly at Jörmungandr. The snake scowled then, realising why these people had come for him even when he had done nothing wrong. Loki had done something stupid again. Hel _had_ been saying he was getting worse...

"I don't look _that_ much like my father." He protested as they came to surround him. He kept his focus on the one-eyed man in the long trench coat, whose frown made him feel like he was in a lot more trouble than he had ever been in before. And Jörmungandr had looked Odin All-Father in the similarly singular angry eye when he was but a child.

"I didn't want to see you again so soon, if I'm honest. Though I like the new hair-do."

" _Takk_." Jörmungandr snapped, his hand reaching around to hold Harry back, where the boy was gripping on to the edge of his shirt and peering around his legs. Immediately, as the snake moved, the group-leader was pointing a gun at his forehead and barking orders.

"Step away from the child, Loki."

He glanced to the side beyond the circle of armed humans, where he could see Grace gripping her other two children close to her chest, out of her mind with her panic. "Drop the weapon first." Jörmungandr wasn't about to let anything happen to Harry on his watch.

"Laufeyson, I'm _warning_ you!"

This made Jörmungandr pause, scrunch up his eyebrows. "I think there's a miscommunication here. I'm a Loki _son_." He said, but the gun did not waver and nor did Fury's expression. Slowly, Jörmungandr pulled Harry out to his side and pushed him towards his mother.

"There, you see, I am willing to co-operate-"

His voice was cut short when pain ripped through him, causing him to cry out and hunch over himself. As the agony abated just enough for the white noise to fade, he opened his eyes and found that he was gripping his left shoulder. Drawing his hand away, he found blood - a small projectile had pierced his skin and likely broken his bone.

In the background, children were shrieking in fear. A woman was yelling out for him in between accusing these men of savagery.

"He was doing nothing! He was going along with you!" Grace protested loudly, but the man only shot her a pitying look.

"This man is not who he says he is." He declared, making the serpent snarl. How dare this man spread his lies when Jörmungandr's family was listening. How _dare_ he scare them this way, making his children scream.

"You are wrong!" He called out, before the leader could speak any further. "I will talk to you, but you mistake me, human! My name is Jörmungandr Lokison, and I would have words with you about my father and your idiocy _privately_."

The man scrunched his nose at him, clearly unlikely to believe him no matter how many times the snake harked the truth, but he also saw the way Jörmungandr was not healing - how could he, without his magic? - and realised that it was unusual for Loki to leave such a wound weeping.

"Bring him in." He ordered, and four men closest to Jörmungandr immediately set upon him. It was all he could do to refrain from fighting back.

He heard Harry's voice alongside Grace's as he was lead into the plane. The woman was outraged, but the boy's was pleading. He was simply saying Jörmungandr's name.

"Everything is fine, tilapia," he called back, but was unsure if the boy heard him. He was unable to check since the shielded men kept close to his back and deliberately guarded his view.

He was forced into a seat, strapped in securely with guns pointed at his face. He held on to his shoulder as he scowled.

"Can I see a doctor?" He asked as they flew somewhere unknown, because, for the first time since he'd emerged from the lake, he actually needed one.

Soon enough, he was bandaged and as healed as Midgard's primitive medicine was able, having landed somewhere close-by atop a building that had clearly only been repurposed in the last few hours. And medical had clearly _not_ been expecting him.

An uncomfortable walk down a hall had Jörmungandr realising how much trouble his father had gotten himself into. It was unfortunate the serpent was very much out of touch with the modern world, else he might have known what he stood accused of in Loki's place. He had been avoiding the humans for the last half a century or so - had retreated when their play at battles in their boats had evolved a little too far and some of their ships sank _deliberately_ ; could swim beneath the waves like a fish. It was just a little too much for Jörmungandr to deal with.

He eventually found himself glaring across a table to Fury, the man with the eyepath, director of an organisation called SHIELD. He had heard of them before, a few decades ago when they were first starting out. Unfortunately, having never expected to be turned into a human and then arrested by them, Jörmungandr had not bothered to learn anything of use.

He was handcuffed to the table and he tried yanking at the strength of the metal. He knew he was still stronger than the average human, so perhaps he could fight his way through. But then, when the pain flared up in his shoulder, he realised why, precisely, this plan was not his brightest.

"Could you not have handcuffed the other hand?"

"No. I like to watch you squirm."

"You hate me so quickly? And I didn't even shoot you."

"You just got Barton to do it."

"What's a Barton?"

"Sure, act all innocent." Fury snapped, his hands clenching into fists. "See how well that suits you  when your brother gets here."

"You found him?" Jörmungandr brightened, before swiftly remembering that this human did not believe he was who he said he was.

"I'm _not_ Loki, and I would prefer not to meet with Thor, if it's all the same to you."

"I don't believe you."

"Why?" Jörmungandr snarled, infuriated by this game and tugging harder on his restraints, pain be damned.

"Because you happen to share a ninety-three percent facial likeness with a certain criminal who I would like behind bars, or, for preference, executed."

"Perhaps I look like him because Loki is my _father_. Did you not hear me tell you I'm his son thrice before now? Are you half-deaf as well as half-blind?"

"Are _you_? What did I just say? I'll repeat myself in case you missed it: I don't _believe_ you."

Jörmungandr spat at him, and Fury flinched away, disgusted.

"You spit at me again I'm gonna put you back in that cage!"

" _What_ cage? I don't know what it is you speak of!" Jörmungandr yelled, enunciating each word clearly, as if the Director were a child.

Fury slammed his palm down on the metal tabletop, making the snake jump despite himself. He was too on edge, in too much of an unfamiliar situation to maintain any semblance of calm. Whatever the cause, though, the sight of him startled seemed to bring the human pleasure.

"Sir," a feminine voice came through to the Director though a small speaker device at his hip. "He's here."

"Send him in." Fury grinned horribly at Jörmungandr, who only glowered in return. "Your brother is here. Better start playing nice, else he's going to have a few things to say with that hammer of his."

Thor was summoned inside by a stern looking woman, young but serious, and stressed in a manner that reminded Jörmungandr sharply of Grace - the expression of someone who was up to her nose in responsibility, and largely surrounded and expected to deal with idiotic children. Whilst Jörmungandr couldn't sympathise, he could certainly respect such a woman.

Thor, on the other hand, broad and blond and draped in Asgardian finery, was not to be respected. He was a figure that had quite literally walked straight out of the serpent's nightmares.

He had memories... half-lost due to time, due to terror, due to the haze of the day, of his age, of the panic that had infected him. But they were not pleasant. They were of a call over the trees, high-pitched and strangled, then his father grabbing Jörmungandr and his brother, urging the children to shift into a disguise. Fenrir had dropped to his father's side upon changing into a large wolf, but the younger son twisted around Loki's shoulders, the snake crossing over him as if a glorious necklace. After that, Loki had run in the opposite direction to their home, looking back only to ensure Fenrir was keeping up with him.

There were images in the serpent's head of men a lot like Thor - in build, in colouring, in strength. They had found what remained of Jörmungandr's family eventually, Loki clutching onto his wolf-son whilst the serpent squeezed hard enough to suck the life away from his father. But, even then, they were separated. The snake had not seen his brother since.

Therefore, it was of no real surprise that when Thor entered the room Jörmungandr jerked away. He crumpled to the floor as he went too far, standing from his chair and pulling his injury, making him cry out in pain. Even though he had been trying to steel his nerves, prepare himself for facing his estranged uncle, Fury had kept him suitably distracted and there had been no real hope that he would have had time enough to dissolve his instincts down to mere apathy.

Thor was obviously concerned for him, but didn't consider it wise to move to help. He was staring at Jörmungandr sadly, angrily, and for a moment the serpent wondered what he'd ever done to the prince of Asgard to make him appear so personally offended. But then the crown dunce spoke.

"Are you well?" He allowed Jörmungandr to nod, even pull himself back up to the chair, hissing all the way, before continuing. "It pains me to see you like this, brother."

Jörmungandr growled, forgetting his fears quicker than they had even bubbled up by means of sheer frustration. He had thought that after a few _thousand_ years with Loki as a brother, Thor Odinson would know his sibling on sight, and may have even learnt to distinguish real Loki from any possibly imposters. If this was the stupidity his father was dealing with, perhaps it was little wonder the clever man was trying to destroy the universe. Boredom and annoyance could do strange things to people; make them lash out where they perhaps otherwise wouldn't have.

"Really, uncle," he spat instead, meeting the blue eyes with his own green, willing the man to _observe_. "Perhaps you should look again."

The familial term used threw the man, seemingly stunning him for its very presence, before he then registered what the snake had truly said. He narrowed his eyes, obviously not quite trusting enough to so quickly accept this as something more than another of his brother's tricks, but perhaps he may be more capable of recognising truth from fiction than the human still in attendance.

It took a few long, aggravating moments, but it was there eventually - a glimmer of realisation, a private epiphany when reality won out against assumptions.

"Jörmungandr?" He asked, unsure but relieved, and with it the Lokison felt his own face contort from anger to confusion.

"Are _you_ well?" It was not a kind question, but rather a query that sooner regarded the _snake's_ personal well-being than the Áss'. If Thor was deemed unstable then there went a window of opportunity; one Jörmungandr didn't realise he even had until mere moments before.

"I am better now that I have found you, child. We were worried when we learnt of what happened to your magic."

"'We' being whom, precisely?"

"My mother and I. It was my father who cast the spell."

"Remind me to tear his spine from his body," Jörmungandr sincerely stated, but it only caused Thor to laugh. The snake glanced down at his dotted hands, almost completely orange with dense freckles, and remembered that even if he were stronger than the average human, he was nothing compared to any single member of the Æsir race. Not like this. Not without his magic. It made him burn for the first time, made him want his powers back beyond all else he'd ever needed, having not felt such a thing so far by keeping himself distracted with Harry, with the hospital, with Hel. Had Jörmungandr been forced to linger on his loss, he may have done something drastic.

"It is good to see you alive and in good health."

"Relatively," he snapped, gesturing to his shoulder than sending an almighty glare the Director's way. Thor bristled as well, matching the expression. It made (much to Jörmungandr's delight) the human look a little irritated.

"There was a child," Fury tried to defend, but the snake had grown tired of his voice.

"How did you think me my father?"

"You _do_ look much alike, son of Loki."

"Only ninety-three percent, as I've been informed."

"A better question," Fury interrupted. "Is why you decided he _wasn't_ Loki."

"His disguise is poor," Thor started, which was an excellent starting point. "Further than that, however," he spoke to Fury's disbelieving look. "Is that the image is _of_ Loki, but not quite. Obviously a relation to Loki, most likely a direct descendent. And here is the crux of the matter - Loki does not use the image of his children for _anything_. His young are the one thing he will defend to the death." He turned back to Jörmungandr, eying him speculatively. "This is your true form?"

"Yes. I don't really like it either. Too many limbs. They're all over the place." He was getting used to it, he supposed. Just... slowly. They needed to give him some time.

"We did not know." Thor informed him, and it gave Jörmungandr pause.

He spoke carefully, then. "What would you have done if you'd have arrived at our home and seen that we were not the monsters you were primed for? That we were only children?"

Thor looked uncomfortable, rightly so, but did not have an easy answer. He look upon the verge of apologising, but that he wasn't quite capable of it in that instant - aware it was too little too late, and that it had no power to change the past. Jörmungandr brushed it away with a swipe of his uninjured arm.

"Do not fret, uncle. I do not feel resentment. My father has enough of that for us all."

This earned him a weak chuckle, but Thor still hadn't come to rest; there was no ease surrounding the three of them in the puny, make-shift cell.

Soon after an emergency call came in, once more for Fury through his clever little communication device. Thor immediately shifted into his warrior stance, fingers twitching for his hammer, discomfort forgotten for the time.

"It's started happening here, sir," The same woman as before confirmed. "The children."

This set fear alight in Jörmungandr's body, able to discern from the poorly repressed terror in the woman's voice that this was something beyond dreadful; something they could not counter, a fight they could not win.

"What's happening?" He asked, but Fury only shushed him in much the same manner Grace did to her younglings when she was on the phone. The snake wasn't about to stand for it.

" _What_ about the children?" He howled, standing up and tugging at the handcuff again, making it impossible for Fury to hear anything over the noises he was producing.

"We don't know." He snarled.

"What do that mean? How can you _not_ know?"

"Something has happened to them, and we think it's a spell. It _is_ magic of some form - a gift, if you like, from your _dad_. It attacks children, makes them... blank. Coma-like."

Jörmungandr had heard of no such spells, but then, he was only a mediocre magician at best. He had never been properly education, nor had time to sit down and read a book. He functioned from lessons from a thousand years ago, and whatever he'd figured out on his own whilst isolated in Midgard's seas. If any spell like that of which Fury described were possible, Jörmungandr supposed it wasn't unreasonable to assume Loki was the one capable of performing it.

"I need to be down there, Fury." He told the man, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible so not to spook him. "I have children in that town." _I need to protect them_ , was a notion left unspoken.

Thor turned on him, eyes sparkling sadly. "Children?" He wondered.

"They're yours?" Fury joined in, but his gaze was more critical. He could smell a bullshitter at fifty paces.

Jörmungandr hesitated.

"Sir, some of the locals are starting to panic. They're attacking the children!"

The serpent leaned forward urgently, crowding Fury's personal space as much as he was able from the other side of the table. "Does it matter if they're of my blood or not, Fury? They're _mine_ and I will defend them to my last breath."

"What happens if I say no?" Fury asked quietly, and Jörmungandr allowed a smile to creep up each cheek, teeth bared dangerously.

"Then I will hold you responsible if something happens to them. Would you like to find out what I do to those who hurt what's mine?"

Fury's mind wasn't changing, and his stern expression wasn't lifting. Jörmungandr seamlessly switched from veiled threats to reasoning.

"And besides, perhaps I can be of help. I'm a sorcerer, a son of Loki. Perhaps there is something I can do to counter my father's actions."

"You don't seem like much of a sorcerer."

"His powers were taken from him by the All-Father." Thor informed the man plainly. Fury raised an eyebrow.

"Can't you just do that with Loki? It would solve ninety-nine percent of my problems."

"My father would be unwilling to do such a thing to my brother."

"But to his own grandchildren he has no such moral qualms." Jörmungandr inserted pointedly. "He sees us as monsters, you understand, Director Fury."

"We have no time for this," The blond suddenly huffed, defensive in the face of the wrongs his father has committed, which the serpent was quite happy to continue needling at, manipulating and tugging, until one of two things happened: Thor left the room or Jörmungandr was ejected from the building. Either would do, but the latter was preferable.

"Yes, we should stop wasting time arguing when there are _lives_ at stake." He stressed, and it was with this that Fury caved.

"Fine. You'll help us stop this. You get information for me, and then we'll talk."

"Acceptable." Personally, Jörmungandr had no intention of ever meeting the human again. His plan, after this whole debacle with whatever magic his father had cast upon the town, was to grab his little family and go, never to be seen again.

"I have my eye on you." Fury told him after the snake had been released from the handcuffs and allowed to follow Thor out of the door. Jörmungandr only waved a goodbye.

"I'm not the man you should beware, Director. Believe me, I am the one you want on your side."

\--

The townsfolk had tumbled into chaos. There were people arguing, whilst the children had been huddled together closely, surrounded by parents. There were a line of angry mothers and fathers who were screaming at other humans opposite them, standing solidly around their spouses and offspring. What they were arguing about was not completely clear.

What _was_ obvious, however, was the effects of the spell. While there were a few children crying and clinging onto their parents, most of them were not. They were blank-faced and still, staring out into nothing without a blink to their eyes or a coherent thought crossing their minds. Whatever this spell was, it was eating the younglings from the inside out, shutting them down, tearing at their essences.

"They have no souls." Thor realised at the same time as Jörmungandr. The blond quickly headed off to help those who were protecting the children. Jörmungandr, on the other hand, had different concerns.

He cast his eyes across the area, having since noticed that Grace and her young were not amongst those gathered together. When he spotted the woman, worried and panicked and screaming out with Ruth clutched to her chest, the snake set forward.

When she recognised him - having initially tensed and drawn her daughter closer - she threw herself around him, catching the teenager in between them both securely, protected.

"Oh, god, Jörmungandr! What the hell is happening?"

"What _is_ happening?" He asked, stepping back to catch Ruth's face in his hands, tilting her head up and noting that her cheeks were tear-stained. "You're okay?" He asked the girl and she nodded, smiling weakly. The man drew them both in again, arms wrapped around them tightly.

"I don't know where the boys are. I need to find them! There are people talking about getting rid of them, that they're 'not of use' anymore! What does that even mean! And what's happening to the kids?"

"Their souls have been stolen. I will find the boys. You take Ruth and you go to the other parents. They won't let you or your child be harmed. There is help on its way."

SHIELD had sent operatives with Thor and Jörmungandr, people who had been trained to reason with the men and women who were talking of killing the young ones, but if that failed the agents were quite prepared to take them out, instead. It seemed that the latter would sooner happen than peaceful negotiations, Jörmungandr considered, since these were men who were not letting up.

He had to wonder what was motivating them into considerations of cold-blooded murder. Whether they were part of the plan, whatever that was, or under Loki's control. Either way, they would not get away with threatening what was Jörmungandr's.

He wrestled his way through two men, surprised to find their strength greater than he expected, but after a quick scuffle he managed to throw them down and keep them there in his search for the two boys. Part way down a road he saw a wet puddle of blood, and a doll with red-stained hair lying next to it. It was no surprise that they were all so scared, therefore, if someone had already acted upon their threats.

He wandered down the back of streets, growing increasingly more desperate as each second passed without discovering anything, until he found a little huddle down a back-alley, a tiny voice shaking and sobbing, muffled by clothing and terror.

He stepped forward, saw it was not one child but two, and relief washed over him when he recognised the larger of them.

"Chris?" He asked, but it was the smaller child who reacted to his voice - a blond head of hair jolting up and staring with big, brown eyes. "Pleco?"

"Jör!" He replied, reaching up for him when the serpent approached him and scooped him up. Harry's head dug into his shoulder, his face wet with tears. Jörmungandr realised why, precisely, he was crying when he held out a hand for the older child.

Chris didn't react. Chris didn't so much as blink.

Jörmungandr was faced with a difficult decision then, and one he did not want to go through with. Whilst it was possible for him to carry both children it was impractical. If he was suddenly attacked they would be defenceless, and the snake could not allow that. However, Chris was not going to move on his own. But Jörmungandr did not want to let his little Harry down, either.

"Panzerwels, you have to keep close to me, okay." He told the boy, placing him down softly and swooping up his brother instead. He held out his free hand to hold the boy close, to ensure he would keep by him.

"Okay." The younger one recognised why Jörmungandr had to hold his sibling instead, and worked his little legs furiously to keep up with the snake's pace. Jörmungandr didn't have the time to cater to the comfort of the child, since he was rather more concerned with getting them all out alive.

They were soon accosted in the streets by two humans - one a woman, the other a man. The group were near to where the group of protective parents were; they could even hear the fight still raging on.

The Lokison immediately noticed the eye-colours of their potential murderers. Whilst he did not know these people, hardly recognised them despite having been living in the town these past few weeks, it did not take any great intelligence to realise that their bright blue eyes were supernatural. They were the same colour as Chris' vacant irises, and from this the snake concluded that they were being stolen away too by a similar curse. However, he was not going to show mercy for it. Not when he had children to protect.

"Get back, threadfin."

Harry stepped behind his legs, and Jörmungandr placed Chris down. He then shot forward aggressively, faster than the humans had anticipated, and drove his elbow into the man's nose, before pulling at the woman's hair and kneeing her in the stomach. He drove the heel of his foot into the man's chest, sending him sprawling to the ground, and threw her down on top of him. He then kicked their heads, made them scream, before grabbing both the children and running. The time for a quiet escape had passed, he had drawn attention, and now there possessed people were starting to look over to him.

He made it to the grassy area in which the main bulk of the fight was happening, determined to get his two young charges into the one place where others would help him fight. Thor immediately saw him, came over to take one of the youngsters from him, and Jörmungandr passed over Chris without so much as a hesitation. It wasn't that he didn't love Chris deeply and much too quickly, but Harry was _his_. And, from the way the little boy had latched himself around the serpent's neck, Jörmungandr was owned in much the same way.

"Curacao, we're almost there." He set the boy down when he saw more of the demented humans approach, and glanced over to double-check Chris' safety. Thor, older and stronger and with a weapon in hand, was not having trouble fighting with one hand. Chris would be fine. Now it was up to Jörmungandr to safely deliver the smallest of Grace's children.

He was swamped by men and women, but it mattered little to him what gender he was harming. He needed them down, even dead, and out of his way. He was quicker than them, stronger than them, but only just. But this was no more suspicious than their glowing eyes and their murderous intentions.

"I'm going to kill him." He swore under his breath, completely serious and cursing every breath his father had ever taken. This had been in the prophecies, however - men turning on men. Jörmungandr really shouldn't have been surprised that the best way to inflict such anger amid the humans was to infect their young.

He suddenly heard Grace screaming for her youngest son at the same time as Harry’s voice piercing the air.

“Mummy! Jör!” He was screaming, scrabbling for Jörmungandr, who realised he had wandered too far afield. A man had snuck up behind him, crafty and clever where most of the mindless humans were not, and stolen his child from him. Others surrounded him now as he tried to grab back on to his boy.

“Jör, help me! Mummy!”

“Tetra!” Jörmungandr replied, dashing his way, but another man grabbed him away, taking his attention for a split second as it tried to slash its weapon at him. Jörmungandr snarled, dragging his nails across his face, making him shriek, before slamming the heel of his palm up against the man's nose. The body fell, not without a satisfying crunch, and the snake turned around, determined to get back Harry who was still screaming behind him.

He could hear Grace’s voice alongside it, being held back by a few of the townsfolk who were clutching the other children together. Some of them were awful, blank-eyed and silent, and Chris, now reunited with his family, was one of them,. And then there was Ruth, crying for her youngest brother whilst she wrapped herself protectively around the one who had lost his soul, trying to keep him from the clutches of these insane men.

“Oh, god. Jömungandr, please!” Grace was begging him, sobbing for him to return her child to her, but he was struggling to do so. When had men become so strong? They were only human. It should take him less than a blow to dispatch them. Why could the serpent of Midgard not cut through? Why now, when the stakes were so high?

His shoulder was burning, his wound weeping gore, but he could not let it deter him.

“Yngel!” He cried out, trying to fight through the people straining against him, refusing to let these mindless beasts take the child from him. Harry was _his_. “Yngel! Kjempe dem! Yngel!”

He managed to break through, snapping bones as he did so, satisfied by the almighty howls, but it was only a moment of relief amid a breweing storm of terror, as, immediately after he was free, more humans swarmed him, coming from seemingly nowhere. And every second, Harry was being dragged further away.

Jörmungandr was too busy fighting his way through bodies to see how Harry was shaken, searched, or how the man snarled when he did not find what he was looking for. But the serpent did look over to watch when the human looked the weeping, struggling boy in the eyes, put him on the floor, and processed to wrap his hands around his throat.

“No!” Grace was screaming, and Jörmungandr was too.

“Nei! Harry!"

Thor was there a moment later, tearing the two apart and throwing the man to the side. He caught the child as he slumped, and with it so did all the possessed humans around them. Those trying to break through to the group of children quickly stopped, blinked, started screaming at themselves. Those circling Jörmungandr suddenly backed away, letting him loose and allowing him to shove past them roughly. He made it to Thor's side at a record speed, dropping down to snatch the boy from the god's hands.

Jörmungandr saw his own fingers shaking - a stark contrast to how the boy was deathly still.

“Yngel.” He choked out, wrapping his arms around the child and rocking him back and forth. "Min yngel."

When Grace made it over, panting and screaming, he gave up the child and passed him over into his mother's arms. Afterwards, when he saw Thor put an arm around her, Jörmungandr stood and turned toward the man who had been knocked aside by Thor's strength.

Said man - a human the snake had seen working in a restaurant not far from their hotel - was trying to stand up, but the serpent quickly stopped that attempt, grabbing him by the scalp and lifting his head up. The man's eyes were blue, he noticed, but not in the way they had been before. He was no longer under any form of control, was not to blame for what he had done, already looking horrified by his own actions, but such thoughts didn't slice through into Jörmungandr's rational thoughts. He had just lost his child - he had no rational thoughts left.

" _Please_ ," the man was begging in Finnish, but the serpent didn't let him talk. He stole a moment to stare down upon him, to perceive the remorse and pain upon the human's face. He was glad he would feel such guilt. It was the least he deserved.

"Du drepte min sønn." He whispered. A death sentence.

Where they had all been so strong before, it now only took a slip of his hands to break the man's neck. Jörmungandr allowed him to fall to the ground lifelessly, just like this monster had done with Harry.

People were looking over to him now, speechless with fear - especially those who had attacked him; who had stopped him from reaching his child in time. And rightly so, the snake considered, because on this day he was not feeling merciful.

A few started to shriek when the sea monster took steps towards them, wrathfully advancing with blood on his mind, but he was pulled up sharply by a large, impossibly strong hand on his shoulder. Behind him, Thor was standing, shaking his head. He pulled the snake in the opposite direction, back to where his family was weeping, broken, shaking.

"Stay back!" Grace startled, making the serpent wince away. She pulled her boy to her chest, blocking the little body from view, before staring at the snake  with wide, horror-struck eyes. He realised then, with his eyesight sharpened, that he could see himself in the reflection of her irises. He could see his own red eyes, and how they were slit straight down the middle.

"What are you?" She asked, and Thor's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"I am Jörmungandr." He replied, forcing his voice not to waver. Trying to project all the strength of his terrifying truth, of his reality, into his name. Present himself to a human who, now, was coming to believe.

"Is that why they took you away?" She asked, still shielding her son from his view. He nodded. "Why weren't you here?" She then screamed at him, tears staining her cheeks as she crushed her child closer to her breast. "Why didn't you save him?"

He had no answer to that, and backed away when she lashed a hand out at him.

"Get away!" She screamed. "Get away from me!"

With the aid of his uncle, Jörmungandr did. With his heart feeling like it was ripping from his chest, he had to.

And then stiff movement caught his attention, as people lingering only in his periphery were suddenly blue-eyed once again, tearing at the protective parental barrier once more. Children were screaming properly now, having seen what had happened to Harry, and Jörmungandr felt his mind shut down. He let his instincts take over. He ran his tongue over the sharp teeth lining his gums, could taste the poison seeping through his veins. He could feel the tang of their blood in his mouth already.

One death hadn't been enough, he realised. His revenge would only be found under the ruins of this town.

\--

Jack found Jörmungandr right where Hel said he would be - in a park, by a frozen lake, in a town in the north of Finland.

To be honest, seeing Jörmungandr for the first time stopped him short with his heart pounding loud in his ears as he recognised him. Jack hovered in the air looking down on the man as he spun, face splashed with blood, hair defining each movement at the orange locks followed him, made him bright and fierce and beautiful and terrifying.

And it was terror which gripped Jack by the stomach when he saw the man, because, there, in the midst of a battle, Jörmungandr looked just like their father.

Despite never having seen the man before, it really didn't take a genius to identify him. Absurdly, Jack noticed their similar noses before all else.

He saw Thor fighting alongside the Midgard serpent, trying harder than Jörmungandr to keep their human opponents alive. The Lokison was a bit beyond that, it seemed, as he stepped on bodies and clawed and bit and tore into people. If that instinctive fear wasn't enough to keep Jack away, then the sight of his brother tearing the throat out of a man with his teeth would have done the trick.

However, the elemental sprite was on a mission, and he saw the children he needed to protect. Off to the side, strangely isolated from the other huddled group of humans, a mother and son were curled close together. Jack kept his eye on them to ensure their safety, and then moved to assist Jörmungandr in swiping away his enemies.

Jack waved his staff, blew them to the side with a strong, icy wind, and his brother looked up to search for the cause. Immediately, red eyes with thin pupils landed where Jack stood, and the spirit felt a rush of satisfaction.

They had only a moment, since the downed humans were starting to stagger back up, but there was enough time for the red-head to reach out and almost touch him. He seemed to feel the air around the spirit, and his lips pressed together tightly.

"Did she send you?"

"What?"

"Did _Hel_ send you? I can feel her magic upon you."

Jack nodded, and started to speak, to introduce himself, but hardly made it past the first syllable before his brother interrupted him, clearly too agitated to listen.

"Well, tell her she has my attention," Jörmungandr growled, waiting poised for the slightly dazed humans to reach him. "I will be along shortly."

"Do you need some help?"Jack offered. Jörmungandr's face spread wide in a crocodile grin that sat too easily on his sharp face, and he shook his head.

"This is not a battle I am destined to lose, white one. Go now. Send word to my sister."

And Jack nodded, summoning the winds of home and blasting some people back from those attempting to protect the children. There were black-clad SHIELD agents amongst them, and Jörmungandr and Thor were dispatching the enemies quickly and efficiently. However, it wouldn't hurt for them to have a little aid. He froze the ground in front of the men and women trying to claw through the protective barrier of those who had not lost their minds, causing them to slip, to bash their heads, to truly fight to get back up. And then he left, because this was not his only responsibility right now. The children were as safe as they were going to be, and with Thor there, with Jörmungandr clearly fighting the good fight, they were all going to be alright.

\--

When the battle wore down, Jörmungandr only stopped because the stern SHIELD agent he'd seen before briefly by the name of Hill had put a gun to his forehead and dared him to kill anyone else. Jörmungandr almost took her up on that bet.

People were being put in cuffs and let away by the secret organisation, still straining against their handcuffs and snarling grotesquely. The agents were nonplussed, too well trained to so much as blink in even the most awful of happenstances, which is why they had dealt with leading Grace away with her dead child so quickly. Why the injured were being tended to, and the lifeless corpses collected up so emotionlessly from around the serpent's feet.

The children without souls were still lost and beyond held - not moving, hardly breathing. They were being led away with SHIELD to the planes which were landing. It seemed as if the whole town were being whisked away for one reason or another, leaving behind nothing but empty homes and a blood-stained lake.

Thor looked as if he would like to approach his brother's son, but Jörmungandr held up a hand, urging him to stay away. His nerves were alight within him, making him angrier, twitchier, more violent and trigger-happy.

He smelt sooner than heard her as she approached; Grace, who was so tired, so worn thin, obviously trying to figure out where her life was supposed to go from here. Jörmungandr felt much the same, and even as he watched her approach he saw her drifting away.

"Don't," she said when he tried to move closer. She held something in her fist and handed it back to him. His blue bead - the one the snake had gifted Harry earlier that day. It was intended to be passed down from father to son, as it had been handed to Jörmungandr from Loki, and Harry from Jörmungandr. Harry should have grown up, lived, bred, continued the chain.

Harry had been his. Jörmungandr had found him and made him thus.

"This is yours." She said, and the serpent considered refusing it - letting it drop to the floor and leaving it there. But he opened his palm and allowed it to fall back into his possession, as if it had never been Harry's at all.

"I'm sorry." He weakly stated, but she shook her head and refused to look at him.

"You tried. I realise that, and I know you did your best, but if you're like him," she gestured to Thor. "How the hell did you fail?"

"Grace-"

"No, Jör. No. Just... don't come near my family again."

And that was it. That was the last of it, where she drew the line in their association. Not that Jörmungandr had expected anything different, but it still came as a surprise. It still broke him into two. He watched her walk away, gathering her sister who was tugging her empty brother along, and disappearing into a SHIELD-issued jet.

This time, he didn't stop Thor when his uncle put an arm around his shoulder.

"It was not your fault." The larger man whispered, but Jörmungandr shook his head, shrugged Thor off of him and took a few steps away from his touch.

"My little barracuda did me proud. He fought hard. But if only I were a little _stronger_..."

He was interrupted from his self-loathing _what ifs_ by another plane landing beside them. Out of it, predictably, emerged the Director himself. He glanced to the uncle and nephew for a mere second before his attentions were captured by Agent Hill. But Jörmungandr wasn't willing to wait for him to be debriefed. He had things to do, people to see, and his father's destructive plots to derail.

He stormed up to the one-eyed man, catching him by the collar of his coat and pushing him into the metal of the plane. Instantaneously, before he could even blink, the Lokison had a dozen guns, aimed and loaded, pointed towards his eyeballs. But he didn't pay this any heed.

"They _were_ mine." He spat, almost hissing in his anger. That was all he had to say, too livid to continue without murder following close behind, and so dropped the human carelessly, before turning and walking away.

"Do you want us to apprehend him, sir?" Hill asked Fury, but the man shook his head.

"Let him go. He's not a danger to us."

No, Jörmungandr was not. Not to these humans, no matter how much he'd like to slaughter them all in their sleep - slash at their bodies until they were naught but bloody stripes of flesh and bone. But they had done him no true wrong, and he had bigger prey to stalk.

It wasn't until he was alone and staring at the ice imps in the trees that he started to call out, to scream to the gods and his ancestors and his father, cursing Loki with ever breath. He tore at the trees, startling the wildlife, scaring the little elemental sprites to their very core. He wanted everything gone. This world, the next, the afterlife, the universe. But most of all, first and foremost, he wanted his father to pay for what he had done. To pay for the people that had been lost.

To pay for Harry.

He used his nails to scratch a face into the bark of the nearest tree - ugly and malformed, fierce and unforgettable. Angrboða.

"Mother, help me," he pleaded, to the tree, to her memory, to everything within himself which was of his mother's blood and not his father's. "Help me find the strength to bring your husband _down_."

Because, honestly, for all his determination and righteous fury, he was certain he would die in his attempt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was almost 9,000 words and apologies for any incorrect Norwegian. Comments are greatly appreciated, and thank you all for reading!


	20. Inside Each Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of spoiler for the books. If you haven’t read them I’m sorry. There’s a little bit of dialogue part way through this that’s related to it and it might not make much sense out of context, but it’s not really relevant to the overall plot so I wouldn’t worry. Hope you all enjoy!

Pitch first met Loki Odinson when he had tried to storm Asgard, cocky and confident with the realms he had left mere husks, burnt out and empty and screaming. He had been sure of himself, believing Asgard would simply fall to its knees in the face of such might.

He had forgotten himself, however. Had forgotten _them_.

Loki was not a creature which immediately caught his eye, as he had seemed small, unthreatening, apparently unarmed. But once Pitch noticed him, caught on to the sliver of fear that oozed from his heart, it was hard to tear his attention away.

Because Loki wasn’t scared of him, nor of his army of shadows. Loki was scared of something else. Loki also had his lips sown together. _That_ was something which the eye tended to get stuck on.

Pitch therefore, once realising the battle was all but lost, focused his energies on quietly taking the prince away from his family and fellow warriors, isolating him within the press of shadows and trapping him somewhere indefensible. He wasn’t going to hurt the Áss and, honestly, watching his skill as a fighter Pitch wasn’t entirely sure how successful he’d be if he tried, but rather talk with him. Or, as the case may be, _to_ him.

“Why did they do that to you, your highness?” Pitch asked, dropping down in front of the man once they were alone with only the fearlings to keep watch. Pitch wanted to reach out and touch the magical thread which kept the other man silent but he saw the warning in Loki’s eye. It stated that he wasn’t about to stand for such gestures and would sooner take Pitch’s hand then allow him to feel.

Loki, of course, could not reply. Pitch could now taste the fear from him, but it was still not for the Nightmare King. It was not for the shadows which trapped him, nor the stories of this army slashing through galaxies and destroying all life with it; taking it as their own.

No. It was something much more local. It was fear that originated on this realm. It was fear, Pitch realised, of his own family.

“Oh, you poor, damaged soul.” He cooed, travelling through the darkness to overwhelm Loki, touch his face, careful to avoid the tightly bound lips. “You’re afraid they’ll never let you loose, aren’t you? You’re scared that they’ll only love you whilst you’re kept quiet. What did you _do_ to deserve this, you glorious creature?”

Loki didn’t appreciate his meddling and lashed out defensively, cutting through Pitch’s shadow minions with a swipe of his hand and a glint of his powerful magic. Pitch got the hint, could feel the way this realm did not want him here. It wasn’t just the people who were trying to drive him away, but the very seiðr in the air. Older than most of the magic the King of Fear had come across before. Older than he was willing to mess with. For now.

He’d come back again, he knew. Even if only to discover more about the intriguing prince which glared so hatefully down upon him; who feared nothing more than his family turning on him.

\--

There was another meet several years later, still in the midst of war but in the lull between major battles. In the eerie silence of it all, each side was tense, waiting for the other to attack. Pitch was not one of them. He did not care who fell upon whom first, knowing himself to be practically invincible. So he deemed these times almost as if a break, a chance to do what he had been putting off in favour of his war.

There was a small insignificant planet, and upon it Pitch tracked Loki down.

“You’re causing a panic, you know.” He informed the man when they discovered one another. The prince of Asgard wasn’t much of a picture of royalty at that time – he was thin, badly dressed, hair bedraggled, long and curling around his ears. But his lips were finally free and he was... happy. There was a striking absence of fear – really, all that remained of the high-pitched terror of before was a particle of dust niggling at the back of Loki’s mind; so small that not even Pitch could mutilate it, nor make it fester. The mage was content.

“I am?” Loki asked, as if this was news to him. He knew that Asgard was a state without him, Thor stamping around madly, lonely without his brother to encourage his recklessness, Odin furious at his younger son’s defiance and Frigga worried. The three ruling Asgard together with such mentalities made the entire realm edgy. It was wonderful, for Pitch anyway.

“You’ve gone out and found the most backwards realm to settle on, haven’t you?” He noticed, feeling the fear that came from living in such a dangerous world from the mortals who were far too delicate. If not for the lack of numbers watering the emotions down, Pitch could imagine he would have been happy here too.

“I tried my best.” Loki joked, standing straight and slipping away his weapons as they weaved through the densely packed trees and into a large clearing. There were small fields, enough to grow food to sustain a family and then some, with pens and cages for animals alongside them. In the centre of it was a home, larger than average but not phenomenally so. Simply something taller to allow for Loki’s stature.

Immediately upon his arrival a wolf bounded up to him, merely a pup with bright brown eyes, and Loki scooped the little thing up in his arms, smiling as he nuzzled the fur at the top of the animal’s head. The little creature reacted favourably to it, moving its nose in return.

“This is Fenrir,” he introduced to Pitch softly. “My son.”

“Another animal, Loki?” Pitch laughed, having heard about and met Sleipnir. “Do you not wish for normal children?”

Taking this as a cue, Loki placed the wolf down, simply so the little thing could twist its body and make himself grow. Bones twisted and flesh uncovered itself, grotesque but fascinating, and what was left behind once the transformation was complete was a young child, merely seven or eight. Already a shape-shifter? Pitch could not disguise his surprise, and Loki smirked at it. Fenrir did too. Certainly his father’s son.

“No.” Loki informed him, putting a hand on his boy’s shoulder and leading them all towards the house. “I do not wish for normal offspring.”

Pitch occasionally came to visit them after that, whispering terrible things in the sleeping ears of the children – things which caused Loki to lash out at him once with the blunt end of a spear. Things which oftentimes had the _charming_ wife of Loki, Angrboða, who was large and terrible and twisted in face, beat him away with a broom. That was something which neatly summed the demented woman up: fear itself comes a-knocking, and she violently bats it from her children with a household utensil.

The children themselves were feisty, too – especially the little red one who once bit Pitch’s hand with his razor-sharp fangs. All in all, Pitch was really rather fond of them.

Then one day he came to see them, having successfully destroyed a gleaming ship several galaxies away and wishing to celebrate his achievement through likeminded souls and potentially getting a chance to scare Loki’s little devils in their dreams. But, when he stepped from the tumultuous shadows into the dark house, he discovered that there was no one there to greet him.

He explored the grounds, finding foreign footsteps too large to be human pressed deep into the mud whilst chickens clucking helplessly at him. There was blood across the fields. No one was here, and terror hung thick throughout the forest.

There was not a soul to be found in the trees, either. There had been fear so potent, Pitch realised, that it had remained in the bark, in the grounds, in the greens. Pitch recognised the flavours, could differentiate Loki’s and his broods’ from the rest. He realised that most, but not all, of the fear had been theirs. Pitch narrowed his eyes.

He was curious, of course, and followed a single scent that was still burning strong – someone that still remained on the tiny planet. Everyone else was off-world, elsewhere. Likely Asgard.

Half way across the sea Pitch found a child weeping, far from anything he had known, isolated on a rock he had found protruding from the depths of the sea. His orange hair was distinctive, his fright was salient. It was invigorating, but unusual.

“Jörmungandr?” He queried, intending to grill the boy upon what had happened and where his father was, but his presence only further aggravated the already jittery child. Pitch made fear worse, and Jörmungandr reacted instinctively.  

The boy jolted into his other form, less capable of shape-shifting than his older brother and only so far managing to shift into a serpent, but it was larger than Pitch remembered him capable of. It caused a considerable splash as it dived into the ocean, leaving Pitch dripping wet and glaring at the waves.

“What is going on?” He wondered, only interested to see what had caused Loki to abandon his child here. He made it his mission to find out as soon as he re-found his shadows, heading back towards Asgard.

\--

The great hall was thankfully empty as Pitch pressed against a wall in a far corner, covertly observing the surrounding area. He knew that if he was spotted, even over two decades since his last attack, there would be panic. Whilst in other circumstances this would be delightful, Pitch could feel something in the air. Something which had made the realm uneasy. It may not have been fear, but it was close. It felt like Pitch had just jumped into a warm bath, soothing and relaxing. For everyone else, it only put them further on edge.

He found Loki pleading with his father several rooms deep, distraught and beside himself with grief. He was clutching to Odin’s sleeve as if it would help his case, but there was no mercy in the All Father’s gaze. Some sadness, perhaps, and Pitch could feel the sharp tang of fright, but it was nothing compared to the rich familiar scent of Loki’s.

The prince’s deepest fear had shifted, Pitch suddenly saw. It had been extinct when they had met on Midgard, obviously eradicated by happiness and life, but now something else had risen up to take its place. His fear was still aimed towards his family, but now he feared them for a significantly more terrible reason. He feared they were going to _kill_ his loved ones. The prince could barely breathe for the overwhelming panic and the way it consumed him whole.

“I have granted your children mercy, Loki.” Odin stated. “I have allowed your eldest a place here, and your youngest will be cared for. The snake has poisoned too many of my men, however, and must be kept isolated.”

“He’s only a child.” Loki wept, choking on his words and his loss.

“Which is why he has been granted the space to grow. And grow he will. I have seen the prophecies.”

There was a pause as such a statement sank in.

“What?” Loki demanded, face a tragedy as tears fell down his face. “What prophecies? Do not tell me they led to this!”

Pitch was gone by that point, seeking out whispers and rumours amid the general population, learning what they knew through the fear these new stories evoked. The children had been doomed, he realised, since Loki taught them how to change their image.

He later informed the Odinson of this, _much_ later. By that point he had figured it out for himself. He only nodded. His pain had been numbed and his fear wiped clean. At least until another child came through, dragging up each old nightmare afresh. But Pitch hadn’t been aware of that, either – he had been trapped in a cave when Jack and Emma Lokison were born.

\--

After that, there had been silence. Pitch had been frozen, trapped with a knife through his heart for centuries, the war won and Tsar Lunar still living. Loki didn’t care enough to go looking for the man, as Pitch wouldn’t have done if their roles had been reversed. Their companionship was not like that.

Then Pitch suddenly appeared one night, hundreds of years later, in the deep shadows of Loki’s chambers, kept dark for his stranger of studies.

Loki had not been sympathetic to the tormented man, who looked weary, thin, even scared. He had his robe securely twisted around him, but Loki had seen what was beneath it. He had only needed a brief glance.

“You’re having problems with a _rabbit_?” He eventually asked, because this was the part of the story which had caught his attention (and humour) the most.

“A Pooka.” Pitch corrected, snarling, his arm covered securely by his robe.

“A bunny and his little friends?”

“They’re nuisances.”

“They’re _children_.”

“No,” Pitch defended angrily. “Not all of them.”

“Only the ones that count.” He said, glancing towards the limb Pitch was desperately trying to keep under wraps. The Nightmare King snarled at him furiously.

Loki had seen what had happened to him, what they had done to him in the last battle, and had been surprised when Pitch reluctantly recounted the entire episode, from being freed to a disastrous attempt at foreign magic, to trapping the children, to being given a locket.

“I need that library.” Pitch was now insisting, mind whirring, plotting, planning. He was full of ideas, but also full of doubt. Nightmare King he may be, but he had been bested twice now when he believed himself invulnerable. This time he had a scar to show for it.

“You shouldn’t dabble in magic that is not of your own.” Loki warned him, having learnt that the hard way many, many years ago. Pitch only growled at him, his head consumed with his thwarted plans and revenge for those who dared cross him. He paced, he grumbled, he muttered, and Loki watched him with the detached, uncaring manner of a man who honestly just wanted him gone.

However, Pitch made it obviously clear that he had no intention of leaving just yet. He already felt a little better just by being here to irritate his fellow fear-monger.

“Perhaps it is unwise to try your hand at their magic. Why not approach it a different way?” Loki suggested, fed up of Pitch’s continued presence. Enough so that he found himself willing to assist.

“How?”

Loki shrugged, largely dismissive. “I haven’t really the time for this, Pitch, flattered as I am that you would come to me for help.”

“I did not come here for that!” Pitch denied, but had a hard time answering what he _was_ here for then, since all he had done since showing up unannounced was complain and play at storyteller.

Loki held up his hands, annoyed but placating, and watched Pitch return to his fidgeting, wearing holes in the prince’s flooring.

“Obviously your shadows need to be substituted.” Loki then pointed out. “Armour or no armour, it has only led to your continued defeat.”

“They are mine.” Pitch growled. “What else would you like me to use? What else can I control?”

“I am not an expert of that realm, Pitch,” Loki said, quite clearly meaning the opposite but not wanting to become a sort of advisor. “But surely there are creatures as full of hatred and darkness as yourself? Things that are seeking revenge against those you abhor?”

Pitch, trapped down in the shadows and the darkness for so long, had been largely cut off from the world. But, and there was always a ‘but’ with Pitch Black, whispers still reached him. Stories were still told. Fear spiked, fear kept him alive, and the humans were always _overflowing_ with it.

“Yes,” he said, feeling himself burn with a plan, a new direction, a better way. “ _Yes_.” And he started to gather up the darkness, back away into the shadows and escape from this golden realm.

“You’re welcome.” Loki called after him, but Pitch was beyond caring. He had work to do: he had to see a monkey about a tooth.

\--

Now, only a few centuries later, after a few more crippling defeats and only minor wins which ultimately amounted to nothing, Pitch was feeling down enough to return to Loki. However, he also wasn’t far gone enough in his own misery to recognise that he had ulterior motives to finding the ex-prince of Asgard once again.

Admittedly, Pitch had still been struggling to get his fearlings under control, the Nightmares especially violent, thrashing under the idea of his rule, but he was slowly beginning to rediscover how they were reigned in. However, there are still some of the more dangerous ones to be wary of: bigger, stronger, uglier Nightmares created from more than just imagined fears. They were feisty, hungry, angry. Those were the type he'd prefer to avoid. Loki was one of the best candidates to deal with his problem – Loki who had never feared him. Loki, who now was even more irresponsible with his sanity slipping through his fingers.

The truth was that Pitch wanted help, and he felt it owed him from Loki. He had taken him from Asgard, he had delivered the Lokisons to him, and then had suffered a painful, albeit enlightening, conversation with the Lokidóttir immediately after. Loki could neutralise a Nightmare or two as penance. And if Pitch caught a glimpse of what Loki was doing, how far along into the apocalypse they were getting (because reports had only been confused and theoretical so far), then that was merely a happy accident.

Hel had told him to keep his prominent nose out of this. Pitch was not a being who liked being told what to do.

But there was one big problem: Pitch had no idea where Loki was. In fact, no one in the nine realms had heard hide nor hair of him. This wasn’t quite as surprising as Asgard was making it out to be. Loki had a bad habit of disappearing off the grid, even before he had a genuine reason to do it.

So, the best place to go looking would be where Pitch saw him last – on Vanaheim, where he had first met his children again.

Pitch found he liked it here, was able to draw a breath, as the Nightmares and fearlings who had not yet rejoined him would not follow here – not into this empty air.

On Lyngvi, Pitch started to explore, checking the cave – now empty – before beginning to flit through the shadows on the island. There were whisperings in the trees: a small, maddening stream of words which grated across Pitch’s skin in a strange language which was hard to understand. He looked up to the birds perched sparsely across the branches, the source of all this noise, glaring each one down with his golden eyes before working on figuring out their message. Perhaps they had seen something. Perhaps there was a clue hidden in their words.

But all he could hear, chirping between these watchful, deathless beings, was a mantra harking over and over again: _Useless_ , they said. _Useless, useless._ Like parrots, they echoed this word between them, through the forest, surrounding the island.

Whether that was a sign to Pitch that his mission was doomed to fail or whether it was something more was not directly clear. But Pitch had gone into this expecting a game of detective. Now was his chance to start playing.

He slunk through the shadows, watching the birds as they watched him, and he settled in the deepest darkness that he could find. He waited.

\--

There had been a time, shortly after Pitch had found the youngest Lokison crying alone in the centre of the Midgard oceans, that Loki showed up uninvited on Pitch’s ship.

There was a battle building, one that Pitch was heading straight towards, and it was based on a planet as far from Asgard and Midgard as one could possibly get, the outer regions of this expanding space. Loki shouldn’t have had means to get to them here in the middle of the universe, but then the prince always had a trick up his sleeve which he kept a quiet lid on.

“Where are you going?” He asked the Nightmare King as soon as he appeared before him. Pitch pointed into the glittering skies.

“We’re on course to the Horran Valleys. Do you know them?”

“I know of them.”

“You should spare the time to visit one day. They are very beautiful. It is a shame we will not reach them." He smiled cruelly. "We’re gaining on our dear innocent victims.”

“Are you going to kill them?”

Pitch looked out into the starry abyss, wondering how prudent it would be to lie to the God of Lies. Well, if Loki planned to remain onboard his ship then he was going to figure out the truth sooner rather than later. Pitch wasn’t in the habit of being merciful, after all.

“Yes.”

He watched as Loki’s fist drew fighter, and how his eyes became hard. “Good.”

Pitch didn’t know what it was like, losing a child, nor even loving someone enough to be impacted by their loss, but if this was the result then perhaps he ought to think long and hard about integrating it into his own practices. It didn’t hurt someone if you killed them. But if you let them live without something they loved... well, would they all end up with that same look that was glinting at the forefront of Loki’s bright eyes? Murderous and dark and destroyed. Out for vengeance. Seeking blood.

For Loki it clearly didn’t matter whose blood it may be, so long as it was on his hands, running down his arms, buried deep under his fingernails.

Perhaps he wouldn’t find any sort of peace within that, but peace wasn’t what he was looking for. That wasn’t the _point_. The point was to spread hurt as far as he could, in the vain hopes that perhaps making everyone cry would make him stop.

\--

When one of the birds finally took flight, Pitch finally jerked into action. His movements were smooth and efficient and, most importantly, silent. He fled through each shadow until he reached the end of the island, before watching the direction in which the bird was fleeing. He summoned a nightmare which he had tamed back under his control, stroked a hand through its endless sand flow, before mounting her in a single smooth motion and urging her forward.

They kept alternating between low and high, holding back and not wanting to be caught out. These birds were more intelligent than he’d have liked. At the same time, however, Pitch was unwilling to lose sight of it, because after this there wouldn’t be another chance. The birds wouldn’t trust him not to follow them to wherever they were going to. Old and smart. An unfair combination to find within his only lead.

Pitch could feel the air as it suddenly became thicker, heavy with seiðr and comforting for it. His Nightmare was riding the winds smoothly, no longer reliant on him to guide her through the air. As they continued on, the day growing darker and Pitch’s much preferred darkness settling snugly around them, he wondered whether this venture was a good idea after all.

Once the night came to its peak Pitch realised that the bird was changing its course; starting to abandon the realm. Perhaps it had been an attempt at a tactic – the creature trying to shake the Nightmare King off its trail – but as soon as the black of the night was complete, Pitch and his nightmare lost in the darkness of it, it swirled around and headed upwards. Up and out, away from the planet surface.

Unfortunately, it underestimated its pursuer. It held the same childish notion of a youngling playing hide and seek: if it couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see it.

But Pitch had excellent night-sight. He worked in the dark, he lived only when the universe was asleep. This was his time, his world. He could follow the bird easily now, cloaked under the veil of empty space.

They travelled as Pitch hadn’t in a long time – crossing the invisible oceans of the skies. Riding or flying or sailing, it made no difference. The journey was pleasant and freeing. Or, it had used to be. Now all Pitch could recall was the suffocating feeling of defeat, of falling down, a failure, to a meaningless, pathetic planet. Of landing hard, trapped and bleeding. Pitch couldn’t be blamed, therefore, that he spent the next several hours as they drifted through space feeling edgy.

His Nightmare almost reared back when, after what seemed to be endless minutes of nothingness, there was suddenly a bright light emerging from apparently nowhere. Pitch himself remembered such phenomena – in the middle of space things seemed so far away. One seemed to be travelling slowly. It was an illusion. Things could and would approach rapidly, sucking you in or pushing you off course. So, when the horse tried to knock him from her back and turn away, it only reminded him how long it had been since he had sailed free through the galaxies.

The light which had startled her, which had her careening violently, was an anomaly. Something which Pitch had never encountered before in all his life and widely spread adventures. He urged the creature forward, wanting to get a feel of it, to classify it. As he did so he made sure to keep a keen eye upon the bird – observing how its flight was not deterred by what seemed to be a portal in the middle of space.

A wormhole.

A _tear_.

Pitch was caught between fear and fascination; excitement and confusion. It had his Nightmare writhing beneath him, equally perplexed. He dug his heels into her sides and pushed her onwards.

“Shh,” he whispered to her soothingly as he felt her agitation increase the closer they went to the light. Nightmares weren’t intended for such brightness and, truthfully, nor was he. Nevertheless, his interest was piqued and there was very little which could stop him now.

He felt the universe seem to thin around him, making him light-headed, almost dizzy. It was a similar feeling to the dead-spot in Vanaheim, he realised, and likely why the birds were attracted to this place. There was less and less seiðr in the air as he approached it. It almost seemed infected, to the point where Pitch was uncomfortable to have it surrounding him. There was something _off_ about this magic, about the portal.

He did have a moment of doubt, wondering if there even was a point in continuing on. It was unlikely Loki would be this far out simply to get to another, more isolated spot to hide, but at the same time it may prove to be a solid lead. Loki was always looking for these little nooks in the universe where All-Seers’ eyes could not penetrate. And not even Pitch had known this place to exist before now.

The tear was only just big enough for the Nightmare with him atop it, and it had no give. It seemed unstable, but not flexible. Those were two different things. It wouldn’t allow anything through that wasn’t less a certain size, but it had the potential to become violent if forced at. Violent, Pitch knew, meaning that if it was tampered with then that would be it – the end. All Loki would have to do to destroy _everything_ was _push_.

The Nightmare almost fell apart under his fingers as he passed through to the other side. Immediately, with none of the smoothness of leaving Island Lyngvi, all the magic in the environment completely vanished. He fought hard to keep the creature together, just for a while longer. Just until he found reliant shadows to keep him safe and cloaked.

From here, he noticed, looking back as he continued to trail the bird, the tear was invisible. There was no light to give from the other side. Comparative to the skies he’d been hidden within these past hours, this place, dim as it was, was almost too bright.

He saw that the bird, startlingly colourful in such an environment with the strange light bounding off its opalescent feathers, was heading towards a very curious structure. It was clearly artificial – reliant on magic that, here, was not easy pickings. Someone was going to great lengths to maintain such a residence.

It was sprawling, huge, and dark. Pitch felt the tug of the dark corners and the cool shade. He dived towards them. He found himself peeking through the alien structure, incapable of recognising the styling or the few individuals who dotted the complex sparsely. He could hardly identify their _species_.

Large as it was, it was also exceedingly damaged. Pitch didn’t much care, but it went some way to explain why there were so few people around. Not that it mattered, since he realised that this was a place he shouldn’t even be.

On the other hand, despite the lack of people, the scent of fear in the air was strong. Intoxicating.

He followed this up, through to where he could duck in the darkness, become one with the shadows. When not a part of him was solid. He was something more than a being in those moments, as he blended with the walls and the floors and the structure. He felt the terror that had seeped into the very stone, and he revelled in it.

But then voices caught his ear, muffled and strange, and he gravitated towards their presence, opening his golden eyes and watching on.

It took only a moment, in which he realised there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in his philosophy, to make Pitch panic.

Two men were talking, their back to Pitch and their voices soft, but he could hear them. He was in the silhouettes at their feet, in the darkness above their heads, in the shadows of their eyes. He could hear everything.

“They were inadequate. Worthless.” One said in a tone of voice which suggested he was tired of repeating itself. Pitch was reminded of the word which had drawn him here: _Useless_. The other pushed at this, denied it.

“We should be utilising it to its full strength!” But the first speaker adamantly disagreed.

And then there was another, eyes closed with his head turned up into the dark sky, where the entire cosmos could be seen. Pitch hadn’t noticed him at first because there was no fear about him. Only deep, terrible calm. The fear came from everyone else. This was where the fear was directed _towards_.

He opened his eyes suddenly as Pitch grew bored of the arguing men and drew closer, realising he recognised this creature. The man looked straight into the darkness, teeth gleaming white as he cut directly through the shadows to where Pitch stood, and Pitch, the personification of fear _itself_ , dived back into the darkness. He instinctively fled.

He had to, because he knew he had discovered something awful – something that he was hyperaware that he should not know. He could only hope now that they didn’t know him as well as he knew them. He didn’t know _how_ or _why_ or _when_ he came across this knowledge, but he knew. He knew, and he was terrified.

Above them, the bird silently watched on.

\--

Pitch stumbled out of the shadows, gasping and panicking, falling to his hands and knees. He began clawing at the ground beneath him to remind himself he was safe, home, at least for now. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes, sinking his head to the solid earth – he was on Midgard, that tiny, pathetic little planet he had grown to be so fond of.

His shadows overtook him, surrounded him and soothed him. They gave him chance to breathe.

Eventually his nerves calmed, less of a spitting fire and more a steady simmer, healthy in that he was watchful without crossing over to paranoia. He eventually lifted himself up, brushed himself down, and looked upwards to the moon. He pretended that he had never broken down, never clutched at the dirt thankfully as if he had never thought to see it again. Such things were beneath him. He was the Nightmare King.

“What is going on?” He asked into the frozen, empty, winter air, but the Man in the Moon did not answer. This was not an insult. It was very probable that he did not know either. Likely, he was just as scared as Pitch was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Pitch! Loki! Back story! This was super fun to write. I don’t why it took me so long.  
> As always, thank you ever so much for your comments and your crazy theories. I love them. Keep them coming!


	21. The Air Moves Thick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Quick update! Mostly forced upon me by Clockworkclown :D

The light of the snowglobe burned at Fenrir’s retinas as he leapt through from Vanaheim into the portal which Jack Frost had created. Whilst he himself had been a mite wary, his sister had been quick to step through it – it seemed that even with magic at her disposal, she was perfectly happy to travel on Jack’s word that this would see them through safe. Fenrir took it on good faith, therefore, that he wouldn’t be led to his death by one of Loki’s bastards.

He immediately felt a fool for doing so. Even before he could blink his eyes back open he could feel himself falling fast through the air. He called out, half-blind and helpless, magicless and unaware of how severe a drop was gaping below him. That it was taking him time to hit the ground encouraged his conclusion that, when he did finally greet the earth, it would not be a soft landing.

His cry was cut short and made choking by a sudden grip at his collar, pulling him up sharply and terminating his drop. He took a moment to finally survey his surroundings as the light faded from behind his eyelids, or what surroundings there _were not_ since the ground was made small by the miles between him and it.

When he felt his panic abating, his heart returning to normal by the surety that he had been saved by his sister’s magic, he took a moment to glance upwards. And promptly felt his heart jump out of his throat again.

“Hel!” He screamed, squirming and lashing out unsuccessful (as one arm was occupied by a Vanr), trying to figure out what was holding him when he could see _nothing at all_. He was definitely floating in midair and something had him by the scruff of his neck, but he did not know what. There was a faint magical presence, but Fenrir was too far gone to take the time to recognise it. “Hel, help me!”

Hel appeared beside him then, smiling broadly and happily riding on a wolf – one, no doubt, bred within the depth of her realm. It was monstrous, but nothing compared to the creature Fenrir had once been proud to proclaim himself as. However, and this must be pointed out, he could not boast any ability to fly as this one could.

“What in the nine realms is happening to me?” He asked, looking around but not seeing Jack Frost or the Sandman whom he had followed into this almost death-trap.

Hel looked up, eyes narrowed as she overlooked Fenrir’s predicament. “You’re certainly not doing that on your own.”

“Thank you, Hel.” He snarled. “I hadn’t figured that. For a moment there, when I found myself falling through Midgard’s skies, I thought that father had bred with a bird and I had uncovered a thus far undiscovered ability to _fly_.”

“He must have bred with something strange.” She said, but she was staring now at the spot above Fenrir’s head. “Though you are no bird, brother. ‘Tis the spirit.” She laughed.

“What of the spirit? He’s gone.”

“No, we simply can no longer perceive him. He is protected. Do you not feel it?”

Fenrir now began to take a moment to try and identify the magic holding onto the back of his shirt. He had to work through a great deal of interference from a foreign type of seiðr, but there was certainly something recognisable about it. His panic regarding dangling in the middle of the sky lessened with the knowledge his powerful sister was beside him, but spiked once more when he finally recognised who, precisely, was keeping him in the air.

“Allow me a magic wolf,” he snapped, whilst his sister only continued to smile. “Now, Hel! He will _drop me_.”

“Have a little faith.”

“I had some, and it resulted in my falling to my death.”

“You’re as melodramatic as our father.”

“And he is _skinnier_! He has not the strength to keep me safe!”

An icy cold wind pulled them all in a certain direction, but it hit the exposed skin of Fenrir’s face and arms especially cuttingly. He sneered up at the winter spirit, knowing who to blame for his now frozen skin.

“It is a statement of fact, child. You’re small and I am large.” But he couldn’t continue as he felt his stomach betray him. Hel seemed to enjoy the height, but Fenrir entertained the notion that falling had been better.

“Pass over the Vanr,” Hel instructed, and Fenrir tossed the unconscious body in her direction without looking, immediately waving his hands above his head to see where Jack was. He felt something solid, and along with it the truth of how frail this little creature was – he could have wrapped one hand around both wrists and still have room to spare. It did his confidence no favours.

“Let me down.” He demanded, but there was no reply. He may be capable of feeling that the spirit was present, but communication was proving to be difficult.

Hel was quite obviously thinking similar thoughts as she placed Nótt on the wargr behind her. “What shall we do about this? To talk with him once again?”

Fenrir had no ideas. “I thought you were a sorceress, sister. You are rumoured to be more powerful than Loki.”

“Not yet.” She admitted, which was disheartening considering the mission she had set them all on. “But I do believe something can be done.”

“Is this like the imps father was always harping on about?” He asked, trying to keep his mind distracted and his eyes from the ground far, far below him. Hel didn’t seem to understand what he meant, and Fenrir didn’t feel the urge to elaborate. It was merely a little trinket of a memory from a bygone past, and something which obviously wasn’t relevant. If it had been a similar trick to that of Loki teaching his sons to see the little season sprites, then Fenrir would have had no difficulty spotting Jack even on this realm with some form of mysterious seiðr shrouding him. 

“What is protecting him?” He queried, and Hel waved a hand. Fenrir struggled to see where his sibling had pointed to.

“The moon.” She said. “It is not of this world.” But Fenrir could not sense such a thing. It was much too far away and he was ignorant of this realm to recognise what was born of it and what was not. He had grown used to Asgard, and then to the emptiness of Island Lyngvi. Midgard was a mere distant memory, and one he’d rather not linger on.

“Is that why we cannot see him?”

Hel nodded, obviously pondering deeply. Her frown was severe.

Meanwhile, Fenrir tried to keep the meagre amount of liquid he had consumed since being freed of the chain inside his stomach as he fought the urge to look down. Similarly, he tried his best not to scrunch his eyes closed and pretend this was not happening. He wasn’t a child: he was a hardened, blood-thirsty wolf. He could handle a little flying if his baby sister could.

Though he couldn’t see him or hear him, Fenrir knew that Jack Frost was laughing at him.

\--

When they landed near the North Pole Jack immediately let Fenrir loose, watching with a broad grin as his big brother, so sure and intimidating in Vanaheim, flailed as soon as he was released and landed ungracefully in the snowy plains. When Fenrir stood up his dark hair was littered with white snowflakes and Jack couldn’t hold back a chortle. To his right, Sandy did the same.

A little bit behind them, but coming in quick, Hel was not immune to the amusing sight of their sibling trying to shake the snow from his body like a dog, glaring between the offending snowdrift and the spirit who had dumped him there.

It was a shame, Jack considered, that his eyes mostly missed him. Though they had both shown that they could sense him – and Fenrir had even managed to _touch_ him! Unusual, but wonderful – it wasn’t the same as the feeling of being seen. And Jack had so quickly grown used to the sensation that it was jarring to be back on Earth where, though his powers were once more at full whack, his family could no longer easily converse with him.

Fenrir still looked irritated, trying to hoist himself up but misjudging the depth of the snow. When he put his hand down to stand, the entirety of his arm sank down into the misleading ground. Fenrir’s honest baffled expression made Jack howl, whilst his brother only snarled. He looked about ready to shout at the smirking Hel, who was hovering a few feet above the ground on her enchanted wolf, but he didn’t get the chance to. At precisely that moment, the rage shifted to shock when a snowball exploded in his face.

“Jack!” He screamed, knowing without thinking that this was of the winter spirit’s design, and he pounced up suddenly, though not without a stumble as his foot, as his arm had done, sank lower than he expected it to. Though it took him a long moment to find his bearings Jack still leaped up into the air, choking on his snorts.

“Oh, you should see your _face_ ,” he said, but his brother didn’t hear him. He was swiping up at the air, trying to get his claws into Jack’s leg, but the higher he jumped the further up Jack floated.

Sandy was trying to get Jack’s attention, the winter sprite realised then, as he tugged on his friend’s sleeve and gestured with his head. Jack nodded, realising where the Guardian was pointing. Off in the distance, not too far away, North’s workshop loomed dark against its snowy surroundings. It was obviously bustling, both inside and out, and Jack felt bad about pushing his and his family’s presence here so close to Christmas. But, at the same time, there really was no other choice – not after the warning from the moon itself. North would understand. North was probably freaking out the most of all of them, the big-hearted dope.

He told Sandy to go on, but then was faced with the difficult task of trying to encourage Hel and Fenrir to follow him. He could blast them in the right direction, herding them like sheep towards Santa’s busy abode with small shocks of ice, but, knowing his siblings for even the small amount of time he had, he knew that any open acts of aggression, even the most light-hearted, would be met with contrariness and challenge. Fenrir would see it as a game or a threat depending on his mood, and Hel was not one to be bossed around. As the _Queen_ of her realm, she probably saw Jack as little higher up in the hierarchy than the peasantry. Either way, Jack lamented being able to speak with them.

Luckily, it seemed, Hel was five steps ahead of him with a plan in mind already. This shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did, since as far as he could tell she was much the same with everyone else excepting their father.

“Jack,” she called out, looking in the same direction Fenrir was – just a little too far to the right of him. He wondered if his magic was right-heavy. “Please come to stand before me. I think I have a spell.”

“Really?” He asked, eagerly landing and blasting a light gust into her pale face to signal his arrival. He felt Fenrir looming behind him, but was thankful to realise he wasn’t going to interrupt Hel’s plans in favour of getting a little of his own back.

“Where are your beads?” She queried, looking to the oldest of the three as she tugged at her midnight-black hair. Fenrir quickly shrugged.

“They were lost when Týr betrayed me. I half expect them to have been sold off across half the realms before Loki found them in someone’s pocket and started gutting people.”

“That’s a shame. Are you still there, Jack?”

Another breeze confirmed this.

“String,” She clicked her fingers twice then, imperiously ordering her brother for a piece of his clothing as if he were a common slave. He, however, only thought to protest to this treatment when he had already tugged the leather cord from the top of his ugly shirt and passed it over. “Thank you.” She said, smiling sweetly in the face of his indignant splutters.

She cast her hand over the string, threading two of her own larger, thinner, older beads onto it slowly and chanting under breath. Each glowed a faint green before dying down, settling back to what they were like before.

“Here,” she finally said, holding out the necklace into what, to her perspective, seemed to be thin air. “Take the beads and wear them. They _should_ allow us to see you whilst you are in contact with the necklace.”

“How does that even work?” He wondered, but did as told. Almost as soon as he touched the haphazardly crafted piece of jewellery he felt a sudden jerk in his stomach, as if a veil had been torn back and his body forced through the sudden opening in a wall. He looked down at his fingers, but there was nothing different about him. At least not until he looked up and saw that his siblings were staring straight at him.

Immediately Jack’s big brother rounded on him and the spirit flitted away, going to hover just out of reach. Fenrir looked as if he had half a mind to claw his way up thin air and tear off his head. Only his own decency kept him back, with a glance to Hel to remind himself of where her trust lay.

“Okay, how did that happen?” Jack asked, ignoring Fenrir’s glares to focus on Hel’s more patient expression. She gestured to his neck where the beads were resting above his hoodie.

“We have a spiritual connection to those objects, and it’s something that is easy to manipulate with magic. The spell affects the two of us rather than you, though you are seen as a result of wearing it. It was made easier by the fact we share blood.” She explained as he floated back down to listen to her, before sighing. “Theoretically it should prove effective for Jörmungandr as well.”

“What about Loki?” Jack was in two minds about wanting his father to see him – on the one hand, it was something he had been trying to do for three centuries. On the other, Loki had ripped a hole in his stomach just to steal back a little magic.

“These were beads not crafted by Loki,” Hel said, reaching out a long-fingered hand to gently touch the largest and most ornate of the two pieces. “They were from my mother and my brothers.”

Fenrir appeared then, covering his sister’s hand and making her fingers seem as if that of a child’s. His were rough, still mucky with blood and mud from the previous realm. Hers were perfect, beautiful, with nary a blemish about them. She didn’t look real. Even her fingernails seemed artificial in the light of the filthy, chipped talons which her brother boasted.

“I remember this,” he spoke, softer than either had heard him before. “This I made with my mother for your birthday. Jörmungandr made another, later. This one.” He touched the other lightly, which was rougher and flawed. “For this, however,” he returned to his own bead. “He was sitting watching us, complaining. Father had taken you to the town, sister, and Jörmungandr was sulking. He had wanted to go with Loki. He said there was no point in making you a bead – you had too little hair.”

He laughed lightly, distantly, nostalgic, and Hel smiled with him. Jack didn’t quite know how he felt about intruding in on this little moment, so stood stock still, feeling awkward and sad for his siblings.

“Hey,” he eventually coughed out when the feelings became too much and Jack tried to remember he was the spirit of _fun_ , not _touchy-feely_ moments (though recently he was coming to doubt himself). “We’ve gotta get going. ‘Empty children’, or whatever, remember?”

“Where are we going, spirit?” Fenrir queried, suddenly stepping away and allowing Jack to flip over the frozen air and perch on his staff. The winter sprite pointed towards the dark outline of North’s workshop amid the glaring whiteness of the empty wilderness.

“You know who Santa Claus is, right?” He asked.

Wrong.

\--

The Yetis hadn’t been pleased to let the two new children of Loki into their home, but then they never seemed very happy about Jack’s presence either. They’d get used to it eventually, he figured.

They didn’t find North in the main workshop as Jack had thought they would, but sequestered away in the globe room. Jack had many fond memories of that place – it had been where he had first climbed out of that sack and into the start of his new life. But then he also recalled not being very happy about it at the time. It was a room filled with a lot of mixed emotions.

Today it was a riot of activity. North was yelling, giving orders and staring at the large painted ball. Jack drew comfort from the glow it was still giving – all the million points of light blazing with steadfast belief meant that, whatever was happening, it wasn’t quite the same immediate danger to the Guardians as Pitch’s attack had been a few years before. That, however, didn’t necessarily mean the children weren’t in danger – only that their faith in the Guardians hadn’t wavered. Until, Jack noticed, some of it _had_.

Off near the skylight, Tooth was flitting around – for once distracted from her usual duties by a few clusters of flickering lights at odd and widespread locations. She was looking at Asia, where there were a few tiny dots twitching on and off at intermittent periods. Every time they flickered out, Tooth flinched a little harder than before.

Sandy was staring at the other side of the world, in the Caribbean. His hands were touching the large map and sand was drifting around the tiny islands, curling around the dying glows he had discovered.

Looking a little harder, Jack saw another cluster in Australia, in Russia and in Finland. He wondered what the significance of each of these places were.

“North?” He said, landing just a bit too heavy and leaning his weight on his staff to keep him upright. He pulled himself up, embarrassed about losing his balance, but was glad to see that no one had noticed. Behind him, Hel and Fenrir were walking through the doors into the globe room. They immediately had a sword each aimed at their faces. North, it seemed, was a little twitchy.

“Hey, hey!” Jack said, twisting his body with the aid of the wind to crouch on one of the broad blades. “I brought them here. This is my brother, Fenrir, and my sister, Hel.”

North’s eyes widened, losing the steeliness that had been briefly present behind his baby-blue eyes – a danger which had spoken at great length of his willingness to harm the intruders at the first sign of trouble. “The children of Loki.” He breathed in awe, but his swords didn’t drop as easily Jack would have liked them to.

Then, Jack realised, Hel and Fenrir wouldn’t be able to see North’s threats. Raising a hand to see what Jack was sitting on, Fenrir’s hand passed through even North’s blades. Well, that was unfortunate.

“Jack! Thank god you’re okay!” Tooth exclaimed, bashing into him and throwing her arms around him. Around their heads, several of her tiny fairies squeaked in acknowledgement. One even burrowed into Jack’s jaw. He cupped his hand around that one tiny toothfairy and brought her up to eyelevel.

“Hey, Baby Tooth,” he greeted with a gentle smile, yelping when a hand caught his hood and yanked him down.

“What is that?” Fenrir asked, staring at Baby Tooth. She looked to him, confused by who he was.

“Who are you speaking to?” Hel asked, but as she glanced around she seemed to realise they were not alone. “There are more here, brother,” she told Fenrir. “More protected by the moon.” Immediately Fenrir shifted into fighting stance whilst Jack took a moment to let this truly sink in.

He laughed into the air suddenly, flipping and landing on North’s shoulder. North made a disgruntled noise, but Jack was too mirthful to care. “They can’t see you!” he giggled, delighted at this turn of events. “They can see _me_!”

“They’re your siblings,” North grumbled, as if this made all the different. Jack tutted, showing off his new necklace.

“It’s magic.” And briefly, whilst North touched the string of beads, he stuttered into existence for the viewing pleasure of Hel and Fenrir – their gazes immediately snapped to the large Russian. Said Russian then blinked back into invisibility as soon as his touch faltered.

“Who was that?” Fenrir growled, and Jack told him.

“That was North. He’s awesome. Sandman is over there,” he pointed, “And the Toothfairy there. This is Baby Tooth.” Then something dawned on him. “How come you can see her?”

“See what?” Hel snapped, but both her brothers ignored her.

“She’s a fairy,” Fenrir said slowly, voice thick with the accent of Asgard, as if his explanation meant anything to Jack. “I can see her because of this.”

“But Tooth’s a fairy, too. It’s in the name.” Jack countered. Fenrir shook his head.

“This Toothfairy is a Guardian, yes? Little fairy is not.”

“She’s part of Tooth.”

“But _not_ Tooth.” Which, okay, yes, made sense and also explained why he was so quick to avoid  the path of the Yetis outside. But that didn’t explain the whole _seeing fairies_ thing, especially since Hel didn’t seem to share the same gift. “You must open your _eyes_ ,” he said, stretching out the lids of his eyes in a gesture which was almost a direct copy of what North had done to explain his _wonder_ to Jack at their first meeting. “There are spirits unprotected from sight by the moon. Our father taught me and Jörmungandr when we were children.”

“He did not find the time to do the same with me.” Hel sniped brusquely, making regret flicker across Fenrir’s scarred face.

“Alright. For now,” Jack said, trying to draw attention back to what was important. “I’ll have to act as the middle man. So, what’s happening, Santa?”

But North didn’t know, and neither did the other two Guardians.

“They’ve been flickering for a few hours now,” Tooth said helplessly. “We don’t know what it means. We’ve been waiting for Bunnymund to answer the summons but he hasn’t shown.”

“What’s the plan?”

“The plan is find these places and learn what is going on.” North boomed, so loud and sudden that Jack was half surprised his voice hadn’t broken through into his siblings’ perception.

“Good plan,” Jack granted, before wishing for some elaboration. “Where are we going first?”

“It’s probably best to split up,” Tooth said, though she seemed nervous about it. “I’m should head to India. It’s just, I live near there and...” Jack got it. Protecting home was priority.

“And I, Russia!” North proclaimed, pointing with a sword to the faltering dots in the great expanse of land. “That is a town I know well.”

“Sandy?” But that wasn’t really a question worth asking, since the little man was still focused on the tiny islands in the Caribbean.

“I can go to Finland-“ Jack said, but North put a hand on his arm, shaking his head.

“That’s good idea, Jack, but first we must check on Bunny.”

“Okay-“ But he gasped as a few large snow globes were pushed into his stomach.

“For quicker travel.” He winked, before slapping his fellow Guardian on the back. “Only a check! Make sure he is alright. Then you go straight to Finland. Report back with what you know in no less than two hours.”

“Where is he?”

Sandman answered then, pointing at the worried lights of Australia.

“Oh, obviously.” He then narrowed his eyes, thinking for a long moment as if the pieces just slotted together. “Guys, what’s the significance of Finland?”

“What?” North asked, sheathing his swords and looking ready to leave. Jack was about to elaborate, but Hel cut across him.

“Jörmungandr is in Finland.”

“That’s convenient. And a little eerie. Is that where he is?” He had found himself squatting above where the glowing dots where, pointing to them urgently. Hel shrugged.

“If Jörmungandr _is_ there,” She confided. “Nothing bad will happen to the children. He seemed close to a few young humans there.”

Fenrir barked out a laugh. “I’m sure they will not expect to see my brother. The town will be quite safe.”

North nodded, though he didn’t seem entirely comforted. However, he obviously had other things on his mind. “I will leave now, and Tooth and Sandy too. Make sure Bunny is safe.”

“Why am I the one checking on Bunny?”

“Because your home isn’t being attacked.” Fenrir replied as the other three Guardians flitted out of the room – North in a flurry of a snowglobe portal, and Sandy and Tooth flying out the large window.

“How did you know-?”

Fenrir shrugged, at the same time Hel stepped closer to the globe, no longer feeling the seiðr infused in the others’ very skins. “It was obvious from your conversation, Jack.” She wasn’t interested in the lights, but instead in the giant structure itself. Fenrir just appeared bored, finding a seat to lounge in. Jack sighed, tossed a snowball into the air a few times, before going to throw it before him.

“Wait,” Hel said suddenly, looking up to her youngest sibling with her vivid green eyes. Jack paused for a moment to meet her gaze. “If you find Jörmungandr, tell him to come home.”

Jack nodded, agreed. “I can’t promise he’ll listen.” But this didn’t seem to surprise Hel.

“I can’t promise he’ll even see you.” She returned, gesturing to the necklace as he swept himself up in one of North’s portals, headed to Australia to (hopefully) meet with a grumpy giant rabbit.

\--

Town Number One: Australia 

Jack landed heavily in Australia, tripping again, but that was mostly because of the heat. It was oppressive and ridiculous – like he had walked straight into Satan’s sauna. And people _lived_ out here? Really?

On the plus side, he didn’t have to travel far to see where Bunny was. On a more negative note, the rabbit was trying to deal with an impossible situation.

It was the humans. They had gone _mad._

“Hey!” Bunny called out when he saw Jack, tossing his boomerang towards an adult as children cowered behind him. “’Bout time you showed up! Where the hell have you been? And where’re the others?”

“Asgard. Vanaheim. Long story. Also, this isn’t the only incident,” Jack yelled back, summoning up some ice which wasn’t quite as effective in the middle of the searing heat of Australian summer. “We’re all spread out a little thin. What’s happening?”

Bunny shrugged and pointed to where a small group of grown humans were lashing out at other people – people who were curled around children. “They’ve just lost their marbles.”

“What’s wrong with those kids?” Jack returned, staring at a few youngsters who were standing in the middle of the road, heedless of the dangers surrounding them. Jack swooped up into the air – feeling it just as dense and hard to control as that of Asgard, sweltering with the heat – and scooped up the little ones, dropping them by the sane, furious adults who were ushering the youngsters indoors.

“I don’t know, but we just need to neutralise these loonies.”

“No, we need to get these kids back home.” Jack corrected, looking back to see how two of them were staring at him. He grinned good-heartedly, trying to stop any amount of worry crawling over his face. “Hi! Let’s get you guys safe, yeah? Where do you live?”

There were five of them, and two were paying attention to him. He picked them up and trusted Bunnymund to copy his lead. Bunny gestured to two of the remaining three to hold on to the fur on his back – to much wincing on the rabbit’s part, but he was a big, strong Pooka and could handle the children’s grabby-hands without much more than a few pained looks. Meanwhile, the smallest had a large paw hoist her up and the Easter Bunny cradled her in the crook of his arm as he started to bounce over the crazed men and women. Jack, being led the way to safety by the tiny fingers of one of the children he carried, periodically looked behind to see that Bunny was keeping up.

The frost spirit spread a little ice on the floor, just to ensure the adults would hold less of a chance of getting in Bunny’s way.

When they had dropped the children on the front porch and watched how they were immediately hidden away behind closed doors, they looked back, ready to throw some punches and make sure these people stayed down.

However, it seemed as if the saner of the humans had much the same idea.

“Well, you can’t say adults aren’t protective.” Jack praised, and Bunny agreed, staring for a long moment as the older humans fought to restrain those who had been lashing out at the children, who were still struggling to reach them. At this point, however, with them all safe indoors, it wasn’t likely they were going to succeed.

“How did you find me?” Bunny then asked, and Jack explained how the globe gave them the clues – lights had been flickering, as if belief had been cast into doubt.

“Is that to do with those kids who weren’t doing anything?” Jack wondered aloud, but neither of them knew for sure. All they could tell was that those children weren’t... well, it didn’t seem like anyone was at home in their noggins anymore.  

“Where else were the lights playing up?” Bunny asked, and Jack took this as a cue to toss another snowglobe into the air.

“Trinidad and Tobago,” he instructed it, and it swallowed the rabbit up. “I’ll see you there!” Jack called, whistling to the wind and urging it to carry him to Finland. All he could hear from Bunny in return was a protesting cry. Perhaps in there somewhere was a vow of vengeance too.

\--

Town Number Two: Finland

Jack had flitted over the trees, worked his way through Scandinavia on the wind, eyes following the landscape as he flew. He was looking for something, anything, suspicious.

 _They are somewhere in Finland_ , North had said, eying the globe seriously, though Jack recalled that his attention had been mostly captured by a small, isolated flicker of light in the centre of Russia.

 _He_ is _in a village in North Finland_ , Hel had inserted with a shrug, speaking of their brother, Jörmungandr. _Perhaps they’re unrelated_. Jack wasn’t ready to believe that. So far today, nothing had turned out to be anything but a long list of potential not-coincidences. First Australia, and now this?

At least he knew what was on the other end of his journey this time.

The Guardians hadn’t met him yet, obviously not finished with their own particular trials across the world, but it didn’t worry him. They’d all find themselves at the North Pole once more, eventually, when the danger passed. _If_ it passed. After what he had seen on the other side of the world, Jack wasn’t ready to get his hopes up just yet.

He found something eventually, glancing over a town in the centre of dense woodland made white by the snow. There was screaming and panic, and no fun to be found whatsoever in between the fear. Except... except for a small glimmer, but even then it could hardly be called _fun_. Simply amusement, made sour by age and blood. Inside it was some form of vindication, even. There had been an attempt made towards finding honest fun in that soul, once, not too long ago. Now, however, this was a person sharply relearning that tearing into flesh was better for one’s state of mind than playing tag with a child.

Jack knew precisely who that individual with such dark thoughts was. It was a very similar thought process that belonged to more than one of Loki’s children. It wasn’t an exclusive mental pattern.

His assumptions were proven right when Jack spotted him: Jörmungandr was deadly, efficient, managing to do more damage on his own than even Jack could have done, but then the older Lokison did not seem to have much regard for the sanctity of life. This, and with the double bonus of Thor and SHIELD, Jack figured there was only so much he could add to this mixture without becoming a health hazard. At least all the children – those who were not transfixed, anyway – could see these people. Even with his faith-base steadily growing, it was still hit and miss with Jack Frost and believers.

Jack headed back to the North Pole, where Hel was stood still, staring at the globe critically. She didn’t greet him as he swept in through the open skylight – the one which let in the rays of the luminous moon. Around her feet elves clattered excitedly, their demented little selves ignoring their own unease and making games out of which of them could work up the nerve to touch one of the many hems of Hel’s layered gowns. As far as he could tell, not a single one of them had yet managed it.

Few Yetis remained at the workshop – most having followed North to Russia, and the ones who had been left behind were on strict sentry duty. Hel was left alone, since nothing short of Loki himself could best her so far as they knew.

“Where’s Fenrir?” He asked her in lieu of a greeting, but she didn’t reply. She asked after her other brother instead.

“Where is he?”

Jack replied: “In Finland, taking care of things. He said he’d be along shortly.”

The first sentence didn’t seem to surprise her, but the latter certainly did. She finally glanced up to where he was hovering over the glittering representation of Africa, studying him. He felt like a bug under a microscope, just waiting to be slashed into with a scalpel by an intrigued scientist. It was a feeling one had to grow used to in the elongated presence of his strange sister.

“How?” She asked, meaning _how did you get him to agree?_ Jack shrugged, because he really had no idea.

“He just said he’d be here. I’m not sure when or how, and we’ll deal with that later. For now I’m more focused on the children.” Look how responsible he was being – calmly assessing threats, touching base and moving on. “Anyone need any help?”

Hel shrugged, glancing back to the globe. “This is an interesting piece of magic,” she praised, reaching out as if to touch it before drawing her hand back. “It picks up the rise and fall of belief of children even when there is no spells placed upon the younglings. It’s powerful.” She was eying it lewdly, greedily, and Jack really hoped she’d been paying attention to the sparks of light and not the pretty tendrils of magic swirling around it.

“Is there anywhere new which has dimmed?” He asked, swooping up close to her face to click his fingers under her nose. She batted him away impatiently, pulling a face.

“Do not do that again.” She warned, but shook her head. “I do believe you’d be useful elsewhere. Simply pick a fellow of yours and go to them.”

Jack nodded, jumping back into the air and calling the winds to take him to where Sandy was battling an unseen foe and fighting for the souls of the children.

\--

Town Number Three: Republic of Trinidad and Tobago

When he found himself setting down on the ground of the Caribbean Island, the battle was already over and humans were swarming the place, picking up battered men and women and children and leading them away. Some of them had the same dead eyes that Jack had seen in Australia and Finland. Most of them, thankfully, did not.

“This is a distraction.” Bunny said as soon as Jack landed.

“A distraction? To what?”

“To get to one of these towns. Someone knew we’d all be drawn to these individual settings. Except one.” He’d obviously been talking to Sandy, as the oldest Guardian nodded in agreement.

“Finland?” Jack guessed, already having surmised that it was the odd one out.

“Likely.” Bunny admitted, fidgeting around his egg with an anxious paintbrush. “Why didn’t you stay there? That’s where you went, right?”

“Jörmungandr was there.” Jack shrugged blithely. That and Thor and SHIELD – Jack really would have been more of a hindrance at this point than anything further.

“Jörmun- _what_?” Bunny gaped, seemingly getting a thought halfway out of his mouth before his brain decided it was preposterous. “The giant snake?”

“Aren’t you used to giant snakes in the good old outback?” Jack sniped, knowing as well as well as the rest of the Guardians did that Bunny didn’t actually live in Australia. Bunny took this in stride, only fluffing up his fur a little bit in offence.

“Me and big snakes have come to a general agreement, actually.” He snapped. “I don’t mess with them and they don’t mess with a six-foot rabbit. But when I say big snake, I don’t bloody well mean _Jörmungandr._ He’s the _king_ of big snakes.”

Jack shrugged, watching as the adults finally closed doors and sirens disappeared hospital-bound. “Didn’t seem that big, or that snakey. Though he did have these creepy eyes-“ He saw their look and moved on. “It was fine, I promise. He wasn’t trying to eat anyone. Well, not anyone who wasn’t possessed.” He hoped his smile portrayed his confidence in his older brother. Neither Bunny nor Sandy looked particularly convinced.

“We know you’re a Lokison and all that, but is it really wise for you to be playing house with the _monstrous_ children?” Bunny asked, with all that tact he was famous for. He recognised his error when both Sandy and Jack frowned. Sandy even kicked his furry leg. It didn’t hurt the rabbit, but it certainly made him pull a face. “Sorry.” He said, but it sounded a little forced.

“It’s alright.” Jack then dismissed, jumping up. “Are we done?”

“Why? Where are we off to next?”

“I don’t think anyone’s back yet, so perhaps we should go help one of them. I’m thinking Tooth, and then go grab North.”

“Regroup and pool our intel.” Bunny summarised, which all sounded incredibly boring and made Jack itch just to think of it. Oh, for a snow day right now. He really felt he needed one after all this stress.

“Well, I’ll see you wherever Tooth is.” He said, jumping up into the air and being tugged by the wind. Below him he saw Sandy gather up his dreamsand and Bunny disappear down into one of his tunnels. He turned his heading towards India.

\--

Town Number Four: India

They found Tooth in much the same position that Jack had discovered Bunny – covering children, swords drawn, looking for all intents and purposes on the verge of slaying these crazed adults. They didn’t have time to share information when the humans were advancing. Not upon them, of course, since they were blind to the Guardians by grace of the moon, but to the children that Tooth had huddled behind her.

Thousands of tiny fairies were attacking from all sides – an unseen force that was surprisingly effective. For all that the adults couldn’t see them, Jack was glad to note that they could be touched by the fairies. They could be held back. He wondered whether that was to do with the ominous blue glow of magic which invaded their eyes.

“Is there anywhere safe?” Bunny asked, gathering up a few sobbing children, and then a few of those terribly blank-faced ones.

“There’s a hospital.” She said, lashing out as the front line of defence – now joined by Sandy. Together they could beat them back. “I’m not sure how many adults there are.” She seemed especially bitter, but Jack had come to learn that Tooth’s opinion of grown-ups was not a nice one. She had never seen them in a good light. He didn’t know why; had never pried. He regretted that now, looking at her and seeing the venom in every single one of her movements.

Jack gathered up the others, following Bunny as he bounded away. They were chased, but not for very long. The adults didn’t know why they were following, since the children had turned as invisible as the Guardians, surrounded by the magic which protected them. They fell behind, confused and dazed, before being drawn back to where they were before by the sharp pecks of the mini fairies.

Bunny dropped them off in front of the doors, relieved to find that those who were still sane had gathered most of the children in the town up and were holed away in a defensible place. They listened to the noises of the streets as they returned to Tooth and Sandy, and realised police were on their way. A lot of police. They were in trucks, even, and armed to the teeth. That reassured every single of the gathered company.

It took a lot to draw Tooth away, to calm her down, but talks of how North was likely in the exact same position finally snapped her out of the dark place she had slipped into and her eyes became a little less violent.

“Let’s go.” She said, and perhaps her voice was still cutting but her heart was true. She only wanted to protect the children. Jack understood that.

“Let’s go.” He confirmed.

\--

Town Number Five: Russia

They had fallen into a definite pattern – arrive at new town, observe the chaos wrought upon it, curse a few times, fly in to help. Except Bunny, who popped out of the ground right next to North. Santa Claus himself was yelling at the humans – also blue-eyed, also violent – and keeping them away from the cowering children and parents. The only change to each instance before was how nice this town was. It seemed to have been drawn straight out of a storybook. The angry humans seemed incredibly out of place – and all the more disturbing for it.

“I said two hours!” North roared over the din as they all joined in the fight to protect the children, regardless of whether they were present in their own minds or not. Jack just shrugged, lashing his staff around and making some frost. It was much easier in the middle of Russia than in Australia.

“We’re impatient people. You’re not done yet? We’re all done.”

“You cheat!” He laughed. “You all team up against me!”

“This isn’t funny, North!” Bunny protested, but it was undermined by Jack’s sharp laugh. “Oh, you would think that was hilarious, Frost!”

“What? It is.” But he was distracted by something – by a fight further afield. One which was most certainly not being fought by any of the Guardians.

“Who is that?” Tooth asked, but Jack was way ahead of her, zooming over heads and landing next to a strange-eyed red-head. Jörmungandr. Of course.

“How did you get here so fast?” Jack asked, but the man didn’t seem keen on giving him answers. Instead he looked to each of the frenzied adults darkly, his hair a mess and his face tired, and Jack had to wonder what he had left Jörmungandr to deal with in Finland. A stab of guilt plagued him, but he was also reminded that his brother took pleasure from cutting these people down. Angry or not, he had been like this long before Jack got to him.

“Hello, grebe. How nice to see you again. Is Hel with you?”

“No. She’s at the North Pole.”

“Shame. I’ve been told she is a great magician. I would very much wish to join battle with her.”

“Well, with the way my weeks going I wouldn’t be surprised if you got your chance sooner rather than later.” Jack confided. Jörmungandr grinned up at him, taking a moment to breathe as there was a brief lull in the swarms of humans attacking.

“I like you, wader.” He said, and it seemed like a large admission from him.

“Thank you, cobra.” Jack returned, watching how the nickname made Jörmungandr smile even wider, before gesturing his brother to follow him.

“How _did_ you get here?” He asked, as the serpent started slashing through the bodies again. Jack wanted to tell him not to murder anyone, but he knew the Lokison would not listen.

“SHIELD.” He said, nodding towards a large group of men in black who were competently pushing at the demented adults from another front. All in all, of the three sides, they were boxing the humans in, making it impossible for them to reach any children at all. “They heard a report of this come through and collected me. Apparently I made an _impression_ in Finland.”

“What, that you’re incredibly good at killing and not being killed by these psychos? They have that right.” Jack said, looking back to measure the distance between themselves and the Guardians – growing increasingly smaller with every step – before turning back to Jörmungandr.  

“You also, stilt. But then, you’re already dead are you not?”

Jack refused to let it get to him and nodded stiffly. “Why are they doing this?” Jack asked in a distracted manner, but Jörmungandr only shook his head.

“I’d prefer to focus on other matters at this moment, little plover. Like making sure these humans _stay down_.” Jack could accept that, and took it as a hint that his brother did not want any distractions. However, as soon as Jack had flown to re-join the Guardians, it appeared as if the world was conspiring against the snake’s concentration. Immediately after Jack had left his side a body dropped down from the sky, landing with loud, foreign curses in the middle of a battle scene. It was not a small body which landed in the snow. Rather, it was one which towered above all other forms of life and looked terrifying even after face-planting gracelessly into the earth.

“Fenrir?” Jack called, watching how Jörmungandr gaped behind the large man’s back as he pulled himself up and dusted snow from his shoulders. Sandy had to jerk forward and lash out with a sand whip when a human took the advantage and tried to attack the snake from behind.

Thank goodness for kind-hearted dream guardians, willing to put their neck out for any distracted, staring fool.

“Are you not done?” The wolf spat at Jack – and the Guardians along with him – in contempt. “They’re only humans.”

“Hey, we’re trying to keep them alive.” Jack returned, glancing accusingly to Jörmungandr. The man didn’t even acknowledge the jibe, and Fenrir didn’t notice the split in the winter spirit’s attention. Idiots, both of them. Despite the fact they looked nothing alike, there was absolutely no doubt that they were related.

“What’s happened?” North asked, and Jack relayed the question, realising that if Fenrir was here then Hel must have sent him.

“Another place has started to flicker. Hel doesn’t know its meaning, and wanted you all to see. Similarly, she wished to ask about my brother.”

Jörmungandr made a noise behind him, taking steps to back away, but it was lost in the screaming of the children and the insane humans.

Fenrir then took it upon himself to pick up his brother’s unintentional slack. With him on their side the Guardians could move children by the bucket load – could barrel through the adults as if they were made of something no more substantial then paper. They all arrived where SHIELD had formed a protective barrier quicker than they had thought possible. The children were handed over, for better or for worse though they may be, and reunited with sobbing parents. Jack looked around then, to see that Fenrir was glaring at the people still twitching by his feet, whilst Jörmungandr was staring at his big brother’s back, his red eyes unblinking, unnerving.

When Fenrir started to turn on his heel to survey the ruins of such a quaint town, Jörmungandr immediately ducked behind a building, straight into a shadow. He blended seamlessly into the darkness, almost as if Pitch had personally tutored him in the finer arts of darkness manipulation. Jack looked to Sandy, who promised with a determined nod that he would get Jörmungandr back to the North Pole if it killed him. Though who was being killed in that scenario was not entirely clear.

“Can we go now?” Fenrir then snapped, looking at Jack. “We have wasted enough time.” But he winced back when Jack reached out, grinning broadly.

"Don’t you trust me?" He asked innocently, and his brother clearly remembered the last time he had travelled with Jack.

"I have taken to believe that you are in the habit of speaking in jest at inappropriate times." 

“That’s probably fair.” Jack acknowledged, but this wasn’t the time for it. “Come on, just one flight.”

“The joke wears thin, spirit.”

“That’s a no then? Fine, you can stay here-“

“He can come with me!” North proclaimed, obviously finding a kindred spirit in the humongous, intimidating figure Fenrir presented. It was a shame Fenrir couldn’t see the Russian at all.

“Actually not a bad idea.” Jack grinned, watching the wolf’s eyes widen as a portal appeared out of seemingly nowhere, at least to him, and he was pushed through it by a gust of icy wind.

“Jack!” He yelled, but his little brother was laughing too hard to acknowledge it. He was feeling good, he realised. He had saved these children and, even with the news of another town in peril, he was confident him and the Guardians would succeed. And with Fenrir, Hel and potentially even Jörmungandr on their side, there really was nothing stopping them.

He glanced over to where Jörmungandr was hiding once again, watching how Sandy puzzled how best to deal with the situation, before hitting the man around the head with a dense ball of dreamsand. The snake instantaneously dropped to the floor, his body snatching some amount of rest that it looked as if he desperately needed.

Jack smiled, thankful that Sandy had offered to deal with that, before collecting up the winds to take himself back to North’s workshop.

\--

Once there, he realised that the faces of his friends were stony as they looked at the flickering, hesitant lights on the globe. Whilst Jack was thankful that this, now, was the only place which was under attack, it was the first which made him panic so acutely. This must have been what the other Guardians had felt before, and why they had all been so eager to rush to certain towns.

In contrast, his brother and sister seemed confused, disinterested. But then, they didn’t understand why those particular little dots were so important to Jack.

They didn’t know who lived in that little town, nor what it meant to Jack. They had never been to Burgess after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	22. Lunch Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Is this an update? Yes, sorry this took me a while. My computer is officially kaput.  
> Also, I hope some of you guys remember stuff that happened all the way back the first few chapters. I only manage it because I have a checklist.

Nótt Þegnson had woken up somewhere strange, dark and unusual. He had very quickly realised that he was no longer on Vanaheim and had since then, understandably, started to panic.

He had first tried the door, opting for the direct route, but whilst it opened inwardly easily, Nótt was rewarded by the sight of a barrier blocking his way out of the room. He had tried to shift it, pushing at it with all of his strength, kicking it and slamming at it, but it refused to move. It was, as far as he could tell, the back of a bookcase or a wardrobe – sturdy and thick, handmade, and impossibly heavy. Whoever moved it here had to be at least as strong as Thor, and that narrowed down the options fairly quickly.

Fenrir Lokison, the great wolf himself, had barricaded Nótt inside this room – likely to stop him from getting away. Nótt, therefore, knew that he had to escape as quickly as possible. Who knew what the monster had spared him for – sport, lunch, insanity? Well, the Vanr was not stopping to find out.

He tried the windows next, glad to see they opened. However, he quickly lost his stomach, staring down a sheer drop down off the edge of a mountain. He was in the middle of nowhere he realised as he surveyed the surroundings. Even if he did escape, where would he go? Perhaps this was part of the wolf’s sadistic games: allow prey to panic, to be reduced to the point where they would take their own life by recklessly losing all rationality and praying to any which god that a six hundred foot fall would not kill them. Perhaps terror tenderised the meat.

He stood for a long time, half leaning out the window, gasping in the frigid air. He was shaking but his hands were stiff as they clutched on to the sill. He didn’t dare move, not until he came up with a new plan. But... but nothing was coming to him. His mind had frozen solid.

He couldn’t even curse for how still he had become, could feel his eyes water for not blinking, but he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even know if he could get to safety even if he did manage to escape. Where would he go? How long would it be until the wolf tracked him down and gobbled him up? It didn’t matter that the monster was in a Æsir-like body, or that in all the time they had spent together Fenrir had not once given illusions to _eating_ him. But he was a wolf. Of _course_ he was going to eat him.

And Nótt wasn’t sure how to stop him.

He looked around the room eventually, starting to calm down only when he realised that if death was waiting outside then it hadn’t asked for entry yet. He’d have to live with the fact that it could knock at any time. The trick was to have a plan _before_ it started rapping on the door.

He was in a warmly furnished bedroom, decorated with dark purples and golds, strange and regal and beautiful. Nótt did not easily recognise the language carved into the heavy wooden bed-frame, but eventually realised it was one of the human forms. He couldn’t read it, couldn’t even name it, but it confirmed his suspicions – he was more than likely trapped on Earth.

How did Fenrir escape? It was a question which niggled at Nótt as another part of him tried not to think about his two worn out escape options. He was prodding at the walls now, wondering if they were weak enough to break through – you never knew with human construction – but was disappointed to finding that this was a place built as solidly as its furnishings: it was unlikely it was going to break, being as fortified as it was. Nótt truly wouldn’t be surprised to find that it was all made out of dense stone and unforgiving ice.

Which left his mind empty of plans, and therefore it filled itself up with other musings: Fenrir, and why he was now walking free. The last that anyone had known of the wolf was that he was tied with a magical rope, and had been for a thousand years – Nótt knew this personally because he remembered the commotion it caused across the realms when it happened. He had been young, but not young enough to forget the gossip and the terror which pervaded through the universe . No one knew truly where they had confined the creature, of course, because if the monster’s royal father found out then that would be the end of everything, but the news of it travelled fast. Loki was hunting people down, threatening and even killing those whom he had suspected to be involved. Týr had gone on the run for precisely that reason, as not even Odin would have been able to protect the Áss at all hours from his wrathful second son.

So what now? Had the bindings broken with age? Had he become strong with time and loneliness and fury? Driven mad by hunger and isolation? Nótt did not know.

What scared him the most was not only that Fenrir was free, but that he was also disguised. No one knew him as a shape-shifter, therefore he could travel unsuspected in his person guise, even yellow-eyed and scarred as he was. No one would think to question him. He was simply another strange side-character to add into the colourful population of Vanaheim.

The very thought filled him with dread. The wolf could be out there now, stalking the mortal towns, looking for easy pickings. And they wouldn’t even know.

Perhaps, Nótt realised with a sinking feeling, touching the lovingly carved bed hesitantly, he had taken this place as well. Stolen it from people who had built their lives here, torn them to pieces, feasted on their raw flesh, crafted a home out of something which was not his. And what was Nótt, then? Dessert?

He looked again to the window, but did not even think he could manage to climb. It was a sheer drop, and he wasn’t invulnerable.

It was then that a sudden voice creaked through the darkness, sounding dusty, curious, and a little bit strained. Nótt’s heart leapt to his throat and he spun around the room, trying to find the source of the noise.

“Are you looking for a way out?” It said, but the Vanr couldn’t see where it was coming from.

His fear spiked when the shadows started to twist, grotesquely dancing across the walls, shivering and writhing like beings possessed. They surrounded him, looked as if to swallow him up, and he backed away quickly. He stopped only when he hit the window, the light bathing in from outside acting as his only safeguard against the encroaching darkness.

And then, carefully, the shadows started to stand still and from them a form emerged, a man not completely there. Nótt felt as if he could place his hand through the man’s stomach and feel nothing but the coolness of the shade. The only thing that seemed real about him were his vivid, dangerous golden eyes. They seemed to be from another age.

“Who are you?” He asked, disgusted by how choked he sounded. He had wished to be a warrior on Vanaheim, yet he could not face one ethereal man? They would have laughed in his face if he had managed to make it to the capital.

The man was looking at him curiously, smiling lightly and breathing in the air. He seemed to smell something which delighted him and his grin broadened, revealing crooked yellowed teeth. He was the image of a monster.

And then he introduced himself. “My name, Vanr, is Pitch Black.”

It was as if he had fallen from one nightmare straight into another – Pitch Black, truly? It mattered little that the man in front of him did not match the image in Nótt’s head, since the tales were woven with exaggeration and romanticism. However, that did not mean they were not based in fact. He knew that the figures mentioned in the horror stories – the sheer number of people killed and planets annihilated – were never lied about. To do so would be disrespectful.

Before him stood the destroyer of worlds, and he was patiently watching as Nótt clung tight to the window sill to keep his knees from giving.

“Are you in league with them?” He gasped out slowly, minutes later when his voice started to return. “Are you here to kill me?”

Pitch tilted his head, narrowed his eyes in curiosity. “Who? You mean the Lokisons? Sometimes.” He admitted. “Rarely. It is strange to see them together again.”

Nótt hadn’t thought he was in the situation where things could get any worse, but it seemed he was destined to continually be proven wrong. He stared up at Pitch, wide-eyed and trembling, as the implications of his words sank into his mind. Pitch, the Nightmare King, could sense his fear. He reacted to it as if it was stroking around him, caressing his skin. He delighted in it.

“Together?” He echoed dumbly, because that was all he could manage when the terror welling up behind his eyes overtook his mind with endless white noise. “You mean to say the Midgard serpent, too?”

“Jörmungandr, Fenrir and Hel.” Pitch nodded, grinning at each stab of fear which cut into him with every word. “They’re not far from here. They’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you, of course.” Pitch whispered, voice a silky drag over barbed wire. “What else would they be waiting for? The apocalypse?”

Of course. _Of course_. There was only one reason that Fenrir could have broken his chains and that was... that was...

“Ragnarök.”

“Got it in one.” Pitch Black praised, stepping back only a stride, taking the shadows with him. Nótt felt as if he had suddenly been given back his breath, as if the destroyer of worlds was returning his life. It wasn’t a feeling the Vanr was comfortable with – he rather wished Pitch had gone ahead and had done with him. At least dying couldn’t have left him with this niggling uncertainty.

There was a reason the Nightmare King hadn’t lashed out at him, and Nótt wasn’t keen on finding out what that was.

“How can they be waiting for me if I’m trapped inside here?” He wondered, thinking this a rational enough question – the door was blocked, after all – but Pitch did not share in his opinion. Rather, the man made of living shadows simply smiled, a hollow expression made cruel by his secretive eyes.

“There are always ways out.” He informed Nótt quietly, as if imparting a great secret. He stretched out a hand in offering, waiting patiently for Nótt to take it. “And here is the door.”

“This is a trick,” The Vanr stated, pressing his back further into the yellow sunlight glinting off the snow, keeping him away from the creeping darkness writhing at Pitch’s feet. “You’re helping them. You’re leading me to them!”

Pitch Black tutted, as if he’d been grievously offended. There was something particularly sharp about him, as if he was impatient but suppressing any physical expression of it. He pointedly didn’t say anything to the contrary, but nor did he confirm it. He simply watched Nótt with his distant gold eyes, as if trying to divine him, to read into his very soul. His hand remained pointedly outstretched.

“Why would else would you assist me in escaping?” Nótt wondered, because if his options were death by stupidity or death by a six hundred foot fall, he knew which one he would take.

“Why wouldn’t I? What have I got to lose from stealing something away from the children who bring about the end of all things?”

“Your head, I’d imagine.”

“I would like to see them try.” Pitch smiled his horrible grin once more, crooked teeth and all. “What do you wish me to do, Nótt Þegnson? All I can do is offer you my word: I will not take you to them. I will only remove you from your,” he cast his eyes around, a chuckle rising from his throat. “ _Appalling_ prison cell.”

“Being comfortable does not make it any less of a prison.” Nótt spat, but he was no more convinced to go with Pitch than before. He had no reason to trust this man, and his manner suggested he was unlikely to start freely passing them out either. He had a reputation to keep, and he was unlikely to destroy that for one Vanr.

And yet, Nótt saw a shift deep within those eerie eyes – a change in his mood which came to mean, at least to the blacksmith, that there was something more at work here. It wasn’t just that he wished to play with Nótt’s emotions, honing the fear until he was satisfied and then gifting the shivering lump of Vanr to the Lokisons in a display of kinship, though he wouldn’t put it past the Nightmare King. Rather, it seemed like he had ulterior motives. Perhaps even a good reason to keep Nótt _away_ from Fenrir and his siblings.

Nótt didn’t like to think of what, precisely, that could be, but he was beginning to accept that it was either this or a miserable demise. He had always wished to die in a blaze of glory, as anyone would. Clawing ineffectually at the Great Wolf or flinging oneself from a window would not guarantee him a seat in the halls of Valhalla, since both options were suicide.

Pitch pulled an expression part-way between smug and supportive, though it was an expression which only thinly masked his contempt. Nótt was deliberately spared a moment in which to doubt his decision as he reached out to touch the dusty grey of Pitch Black’s hand. His fingers curled tightly around Nótt’s wrist and the Terror of the Night pulled him quickly, down, down, spiralling into the nothingness of the shadows.

It was a tumultuous journey, but one that was, thankfully, short. Where Nótt landed wasn’t immediately clear, but Pitch was no longer by his side and so the Vanr felt himself safe enough to take a few long breaths and scramble up to his feet.

His heart almost escaped from his chest when he peered around the corner and spotted the same sheer bulk of body which he had been so terrified to run into – Fenrir Lokison in the flesh, _Æsir flesh_ , filling up half the room with mere presence alone.

Nótt slammed his back to the wall, pressing one hand to his ribcage as if to quieten the rapid pace of his beating heart. Fenrir would hear him, Fenrir would find him. Fenrir would _eat_ him.

But, as nothing awful immediately happened, the Vanr began to calm and his breathing returned to normal. Better than that, as nothing horrible continued to not come to pass, he even grew brave, daring to peek around the corner and glance into the adjoining room.

It was a wide space, empty but for strange little creatures who ran about and tormented one another, and then the table upon which Nótt could see the monstrous children of Loki, looking much too normal to ease him. Their disguises only made him more fearful, especially that of Jörmungandr, who would fail to attract any unwarranted attention back on Vanaheim whatsoever.

Nótt didn’t dare look for long, scared of being caught and still thinking of a way out, so he sunk down to the floor and pressed his back to the wall, straining to hear the private conversation of the beasts of Ragnarök.

He heard the strange voice of Fenrir, thick and accented whilst twisting around English words, but familiar. “I can get it _all_ back?”

A woman, and Nótt could therefore only assume this was Queen Hel herself, answered him curtly: “No one has ever been known to before.” She sounded regretful, and the Vanr wished he had context. However, from this distance it was hard for Nótt to hear. It was likely that even if they did speak of any particulars, he would not be able to perceive their words.

“This is not a spell widely used,” He picked up, an insistent tone which came from Fenrir and sounded almost desperate. “In fact, I am baffled they even found the power to do it. No one knows the true effects of this spell-“ But there was noise from floors below them, loud and crashing and whirring, that of building and creation. It drowned out almost all the words, and Nótt therefore counted himself lucky that he had picked up as much as he did.

The next part of the conversation he heard came once more from Hel’s gentle mouth, though her words were snappish despite her careful volume. She was saying: “Not hidden, or misplaced. It is _gone_.”

And then the noises were back. Nótt picked himself up suddenly, determined to find a better place to situate himself; closer to the Lokisons, closer to their words and the details of their plan they may potentially reveal.

The Vanr found it impossible, he realised – there were no other places he could slip into without revealing himself, and he was not going to risk his skin anymore than he had done. These were not men who would grant him mercy and kill him quickly. He could hear a thin, malicious laugh – that of the serpent, and a noise Nótt felt slither down his very spine – and then nothing once again. He peered around the doorframe once more, just to see them leaning close together, caught in the act of conspiring.

Hel moved suddenly, away from the table and away from her brothers, and it startled Nótt enough to slam his back against the wall. He curled up tight, petrified that they had caught him, but once again he realised they were only bickering amongst themselves. He leaned closer, hoping to hear something over the sound of the work going on in the levels below him. He was finally rewarded for his bravery, for his fortitude, for his courage to stay here when anyone in their right mind would have fled.

“-A Frost Giant,” he heard in the melodic tones of Jörmungandr. He was soft, careful with every word, and it was little wonder to Nótt how he had managed to draw so many ignorant mortals to their deaths, just by calling out to them with such a sweet voice.

“No,” Hel interrupted sharply. “Not just her. Loki, too.”

“ _What_?” This was both the brothers now, and Nótt was baffled by their surprise. They seemed outraged, but perhaps it wasn’t as mysterious as he was making it in his mind. Adding this half-conversation to the predictable context of war, of Ragnarök, perhaps the anger of the wolf and the snake was understandable. If they spoke of bringing Frost Giants into the battle with them – as the prophecies had always claimed them to do – then that would mean less victims for the brothers to slaughter. Whilst anyone else may see that as a blessing, beasts did not share the same mindset as men.

Nótt startled when the shadows suddenly jumped, realising that he was no longer alone on this side of the wall. Over the whispers of the living shadows, the Vanr found that the voices of the monstrous offspring of Loki drifted away, as Nótt’s yelp of surprise was muffled by a strong grey hand.

“Be quiet, else they’ll hear you.” Pitch said, teeth gleaming as if to remind the man what would happen to him if Fenrir ever managed to wrap his clawed paws around his throat. “Have you listened to them, child? Do you know what they are planning?”

Too overcome by irrational, unabated fear, driven no doubt by the mere presence of the Nightmare King himself, Nótt could only gasp into the cold palm and nod.

Pitch said, “Good,” before the Vanr was once more thrust down the shadows and tumbling through the darkness. It was a longer fall than before, with a harder landing on the other side. Wherever he was, Nótt found, it was warm. He was outside. He could hear birds and breeze and people.

“Where did you come from?” Someone asked of him, turning him over so he rested on his back. A face framed with golden hair looked down at him from a long, long way up. She seemed to match the rest of her environment – glittering, beautiful, tall.

“Asgard,” he breathed, seeing for the first time the sheer majesty of the realm, how it twinkled in the light, swirling with magic and happiness and pleasure. It thrilled him to his very core, but rather than dampen the knot of terror clenching his stomach, this new joy only served to call attention to it.

Nótt sat up quickly, startling the maiden who held out a hand to heave him up. He wobbled where he stood, just for a moment, before regaining his footing and looking to the small number of Æsir who were watching him, curious and concerned.

“I need to see Odin All-Father.” He proclaimed, hoping for a guide. However, as he looked up to the most magnificent building he had ever encountered in all his years, Nótt could likely take a guess as to where he would find the king of Asgard.

\--

Frigga found Thor in the stables, stroking Sleipnir’s mane with a brush, carefully re-weaving the beads Loki had decorated the horse with so long ago. The stallion had his nose deep into his food. Her second son used to do this for his first-born every day whenever he was free, carefully attend to and love his child, but now, in his absence, the burden had fallen to his family. Today, Thor had demanded the honour.

Her son had returned only hours ago, but his father had been caught up in urgent matters regarding Týr and the warrior training. Thor said that it could not wait, but had been pushed aside until Odin returned. Frigga had not been present upon her son’s arrival back home, but as soon as she had heard she had hurried around the palace attempting to locate him.

She really should have known to try the stables first.

“It is a risk to use the Bifrost,” Thor stated as soon as they had finished greeting one another, turning back to Sleipnir as the horse tossed his head at the sudden lack of attention. He took a long time to settle, seeming distracted as he never usually was. “Is there still no other way?”

“It is only being used for special occasions,” she swore, because at this time of rising hostilities and potential threats from their own family, the bridge that was under steady reconstruction was not protected enough to keep from bastardising if used too often. However, getting Thor home had been considered a priority, especially with his tone of voice. This was what Heimdall had reported. Since then, no one had given the prince any sort of attention and that was an outrage.

“Loki is much too clever,” Thor smiled, pressing his hand to the horse’s neck as if a substitute for his brother. “I wonder how long he knew of the other passages in and out and between realms, but never told us?”

“Years, likely.” Frigga said, also reaching out for the magnificent beast. “He liked to keep his escape routes hidden. What of Midgard?”

Thor immediately hunched over, his eyes taking on a cold look, hardened by anger and grief. “I saw a child be killed,” he said softly, privately. “And I saw Jörmungandr.”

Frigga gasped, glad to hear that her grandchild was alive, but distressed by the implications. “Was it him?” She asked, referring to who had been to blame for the death of the child. Thor shook his head slowly, eyebrows furrowing together in pain.

He confided in her in his own time, a steady hand remaining strong over Sleipnir’s back, rubbing him gently, soothing for the both of them. “He wept. And then he killed. He is angry, mother.”

She came forward to touch her son’s arm, supportive and caring. She gazed at him, aware of how much family meant to him and how devastating it must have been to watch even an estranged relative crumble.

They stayed in silence, aware that all of what Thor had to say, what he came here to tell them, had to be reported in the great halls before his father. Whilst her child wished to unload his burden, now was not the time. It would come soon enough. Frigga had insisted heavily upon her husband to be swift in his business, and woe befall him if he did not see to their son before the sun set.

The comfortable silence, made only more relaxing by the love shared between them, was broken by a sudden noise from Sleipnir’s mouth, panicked and wild and not a little bit scared. He pulled from the hands touching him, shifted in place, hooves beating at the floor, agitated. He shook his head, flared his nostrils, made aborted moves forwards. Thor tried to placate him but his hand was shoved away.

“What is it?” Frigga questioned, glancing around to see if there were anymore unexplained shifts in weather, or another obviously strange phenomenon which could have made the horse uneasy. As it were, there was nothing in sight. But then, Sleipnir wasn’t an ordinary steed. He was of magic, born of it and altered through it, and he could sense many things which others could not. Even all-seers or the mightiest of all gods.

Suddenly he bolted away, swiftly running from the open doors and out into the gardens. Thor and Frigga thundered after him, but the queen fell behind when Thor took to the air. She stopped, turned, headed towards the palace and in the opposite direction of where Sleipnir had cantered towards the town. She clambered the steps and then up to her chambers, where her balcony overlooked the entirety of Asgard.

From there she could see them: her son and the great eight-legged stallion. Thor was trying to ease him whilst the creature tossed his head and circled where he stood, pacing the width of the rainbow bridge and peering down into the abyss before turning and walking only four steps to reach the other side.

They were small figures from all the way over here, but Frigga could sense the distress in her son’s child, and they had all learnt to trust in that uncanny sense of Sleipnir’s. As an animal he was much more in tune to that which men tended to overlook – smells, sounds, a thousand underused senses which were overlooked in favour of sight. Sleipnir could taste something amiss in the air, and he did not like it.

Frigga was not going to doubt him. If he believed something was wrong, then she would investigate. Only a fool argued with the instincts of their horse.

\--

They had all gathered in the weapons vault again, for several reasons: the first was that, if something had gone missing then here was the most important place to ensure was still safe, and second was that Thor wanted to see the scene of his brother’s previous crime.

He was staring at the empty case in which the Infinity Guantlet used to be held, shaking his head and sighing.

“Loki insisted you should keep them separate.” He informed his father disappointedly, but Odin waved a hand. He had heard this already from his wife. “Loki did warn you that keeping the gauntlet and the gems together would cause more harm-“

“Loki is the only one who can get in and out of this vault without my knowledge.” Odin interrupted, sighing. “It was therefore never an issue. I did not believe Loki would wish for such a weapon.”

“He had protested so strongly, father. This may be as much about proving a point as getting back at us.”

“You believe that?” Týr snapped anxiously, as on edge about the coming war as everyone was except, it seemed, Thor. “That he would simply take such a powerful thing away from the vaults simply to _prove a point_?”

Thor nodded, smiling nostalgically. “Yes. That sounds exactly like Loki.”

“No,” Odin corrected, his voice soft with regret about having to inform his son that such a thing was impossible. “That Loki is a man long deceased. He would have done such a thing, once upon a time. But now...” Odin petered off, sighing deeply, glancing around the vault to double check that nothing was amiss this time. “Now he is using the power of the gauntlet to his own ends. I was a fool to think that I could still trust him with this one thing. He will find that this power is too much for him to handle.”

He turned away, his heading once more the hall in which he had a meeting with a man who had apparently mysteriously appeared in the middle of the street. He needed to see about it immediately, as this may have possibly been the magical signature which Sleipnir had picked up on.

“Thor,” he gestured to his son to keep the pace with him, and his wife flanked his other side. “Perhaps it is time to tell me what you are here for.”

“There have been attacks on Midgard, across the entire realm. Children have had their souls taken, whilst the adults were either driven mad and made to attack them, or forced to attack each other to protect them. The humans cannot explain it, but it is obvious now that I am here what has happened.”

“The soul gem.” Frigga confirmed, swallowing down any and all horror and pity she felt towards the suffering mortals. It would do them no favours. What would help them would be stopping Loki before he hurt anyone else. Odin nodded severely, frowning. He was thinking deeply.

“Why is that the only gem he has used?” He finally queried, because this was an intensely important question. “Surely there are more efficient ways to overtake a realm?”

“He has set man against each other,” Týr inserted, following close behind them. “This is prophecy.”

“Winters have been spreading across the realm in strange places – cold coming in areas which should not be cold. Australia, the Caribbean-“ Thor confided, and his father’s grip on Gungnir tightened.

“What of Fenrir?” he barked towards Týr, but the man shook his head. This was what had pushed him into gathering all the warriors they could spare, drilling them, honing their skills, scaring them and reminding them what was at stake if they lost the coming battles to Loki and his brood. The loss of one of their own had shaken them all.

“We have yet to find him. He is likely no longer on Vanaheim.”

“How did he escape us?” Odin hissed, but it seemed like his answers were ready to be found in the form of a mused, terrified man waiting for him in his grand hall. This was the one they were calling Nótt, and he had come from the very shadows, melting into existence and falling in the middle of the walkway by the marketplace. He was a curious character, and not a little suspicious – coming through into the realm in such a way, and then demanding to see the All-Father? At such a time, Odin was refusing to believe that every strange instance wasn’t interconnected with all else unfolding around him.

“Who are you, and how did you come to be here?” He boomed down to the man after he had sat on his throne and allowed his wife and son to stand menacingly on either side of him. The man only trembled, but his voice was strong. He had forced it to be, else he was liable to fall apart before their very eyes.

“I know you are searching for him, All-Father,” he stated, after giving his name and his status. He had bowed lowly before making a bold claim. “I know where Fenrir Lokison is.”

This immediately had Týr barking at the intimidated soul, demanding he give up his information quickly so they can track the wolf down. Nótt þegnson looked to Odin desperately, shying away from Týr’s broad stature, too jumpy to make any sensible reply when Týr was acting so threatening. Thor saw this too, becoming more observant the longer he spent out in the universe and not sequestered away in Asgard, barking at his fellow warrior to back down. The man was too eager to find Fenrir again, perhaps strike him down where he stood, and Odin could not allow that. The Lokison would know more of his father’s plans and motivations than the All-Father had access to at this time, and that would be an invaluable resource.

Once Týr was at a safe distance, Nótt turned his attention back to the throne and fidgeted uneasily. This was a reaction Odin was used to – he knew how he looked upon his elevated seat, surrounded by his strong, formidable family. However, he could be gentle as well as harsh. He implored the Vanr softly to regale his story and, with some prompting, the man complied.

“There was a man who stumbled into our village, bare and bleeding. We helped him, and later I found myself directing him across the realm. When I discovered him to be Fenrir Lokison he attacked me, and then kidnapped me. I was taken to a different realm. Earth, I believe.”

“Midgard?” Thor demanded, taking a step forward in surprise. Odin, on the other hand, found his mind caught on something else. He and Týr shared a dark look between them. He had picked up on the same particular detail the All-Father had.

“What else, þegnson?”

“When I awoke I was trapped in a room. I left through the aid of,” he swallowed quickly, nervously, but managed to continue with his sentence after a few moments of quiet panic. “Pitch Black. He was the reason that I found myself capable of escaping. I’m unsure why but he helped me out of that room, and then transported me here.”

“Perhaps it was this which had Sleipnir riled?” Odin mused to his eldest son, but Thor frowned. Odin continued, “He has never been calm around him.”

“It is a rare animal who is comfortable around the Nightmare King.” Thor returned, obviously unconvinced. “He ran out to the Bifrost, father. Whatever it was, he went nowhere close to where Pitch Black sent this man.”

“I have information,” Nótt called out, interrupting their private conversation. “About the children of Loki.” And here he caught their attention again, unequivocally.

“What of them?”

“The wolf was with them – Hel and Jörmungandr.”

“They have found each other,” Týr hissed, and Frigga heaved a great sigh to Odin’s left. “We must find them and stop them immediately.”

Thor stomped down the steps then, coming to rest high above Týr but close enough to meet his eyes dangerously. “What have they done, yet? Kidnapped a man they have not even killed? I saw Jörmungandr myself. Spoke with him, explained to him what was happening. He seemed as baffled as we all.”

“They were discussing something.” Nótt inserted with a shake of his dark head. “Something of Frost Giants and Loki. They have lost something, and there is a spell which rarely not used... I’m not entirely sure what it meant. I deemed the situation too dangerous to approach.”

“A wise decision.” Týr exclaimed, nodding. “They would have sooner killed you than look at you.”

Thor growled. “I talked with my nephew and I believe that he poses no threat to us!”

“But I raised that wolf!” Týr exclaimed with a howl, rounding on the prince as viciously as Thor was snarling at him. “I know him! He has a wit about him, he’s clever and manipulative! Even if you met the snake and he is of a good mind, he will not be now he has rejoined his brother!”

“You think Fenrir evil, yet he has not shown that yet!”

“What, and we should wait until he murders another? Until he proves his cruelty onto that defenceless planet you so love?”

“Thor,” Odin called, breaking the argument and summoning his heir back to his side. “At this point we must assume that they have made plans in league with their father. It is as much as any of us would do for family.”

Thor looked as if he wanted to argue, but then the crown prince had never been taken with prophecy. He had always scoffed in the face of it, calling it ridiculous mysticism, and perhaps he was right. But that was then. Now, with the worlds on the verge of war and so-called coincidences falling all around them, it was sheer pig-headedness and love for his brother which was keeping him blind. Whist Odin wished for him to see, there would be time to prove it later. He had a plan. For now, he had a question to ask their visitor from Vanaheim.

“What of Pitch Black? Last we heard of him he was helping Loki. He gave Loki passage from Asgard like he freed you from your trappings.”

“I fear his ulterior motives,” Nótt admitted, but he also did not know why the Nightmare King assisted him. “I do not know where his loyalties lie.”

“Knowing Pitch Black,” Frigga spoke up for the first time within the hall, a reasonable level-headed voice amidst all the anger and alarm. “He will be on neither side. He is much like Loki was, before all this – he will only choose what pleases him. Likely he will fight against both sides and help only to hinder.”

Odin nodded in agreement, the others murmuring their own concurrence. This meant there was little else to ask of, except for that which was eating away at the very soul of him: a minor detail, glossed over in the Vanr’s original story – that which made Odin remorseful and angry within the same heartbeat.

“Thor, Þegnson,” he addressed them both seriously, looking between the two as Thor stepped down to face him respectfully. “What did they look like? Fenrir and Jörmungandr.” He clarified.

Nótt nervously looked to Thor, who glanced down at the tiny man. He decided he would reply first.

“Jörmungandr is much like his father in face and in attitude. He would be quick to recognise. I did not see Fenrir at all.”

They turned to Nótt then, who bit at his lip nervously, obviously not expecting this question. “He’s big,” he finally confided. “Bigger than Thor, bigger than anyone. He is scarred on his face and he’s strong. He was starved and still held an axe bigger than even I am tall. He’s dangerous. I know he is. I know _they_ are. They may appear it, lord, but they are far from men.”

Týr looked to Thor, and Thor looked back. Their expressions were not friendly. Meanwhile, Odin had closed his eyes, felt his wife press their hands together as he tried to deal with this information.

“They are people,” he whispered, and Frigga understood. He took the emotions he felt alight into war inside of him, collected them together and forced himself to swallow them down. There was no point now feeling this regret, this pain, because what was done was done. Perhaps worse was that he still wasn’t completely repentant, since for what Týr was saying of Fenrir, these were still only beasts which looked like people. It was likely they would have destroyed his son, no matter what guise they were in. Odin still felt for all the worlds like he had done the right thing.

But Loki had never forgiven him for it. And now it seemed he would never forgive himself.

He suddenly looked to Thor, believing himself to be as collected as he would ever be upon the matter, and asked after Jörmungandr. “Will he fight on his father’s side?” He needed to know who and what he was up against. However, due to Týr and Nótt’s reports, he was not banking on a positive reply. True to this, Thor looked hesitant.

“I do not know.” He replied. “He seemed furious with Loki when last I saw him, but perhaps his rage has simmered.”

“He seemed happy to be with Fenrir and Hel.” Nótt informed them, remembering what he had seen on Earth, the siblings gathered close around the table, heads leaning towards one another. “I think whatever they decide, the serpent will be with them.”

Odin stood slowly, considering this, looking between his wife and son, then to one of his best warriors. “Hel is a substantial threat to us. If she joins her father...” Well, if those two pooled their resources to become one force then there was little Odin could do beyond throw his strongest and mightiest their way, hoping for some form of result. In the face of magic, however, he would not start to dream he would succeed.

“What of Jack Frost?” Thor then asked, a question which had yet to occur to any of them. For all the little frost spirit had scared them, with hindsight he did not seem hostile. Moreover, in the light of his father’s escape and subsequent plans he had been cast straight from the mind; made to seem childish and playful in comparison. He had looked only mischievous, after that. However, as Thor pointed out regarding Jörmungandr, attitudes could very easily change. Opinions and motivations shifted quicker than it took to blink, if only one was given a hard enough push from the opposite direction.

And eternal winter could be a terrible curse upon the realms.

Nótt seemed confused by the question and shook his head. He knew nothing. He had only seen the three of Loki’s young – there had been no sprite there. Except-

“In Vanaheim there was a spirit who met Fenrir.” Nótt recalled this vividly – having been attacked by the ice the white-haired child who rode on the wind sent forth. “Young, with white hair. Was that him?”

Thor nodded slowly, and Odin found in it his conclusion. He put the end of his spear to ground steadily, loudly.

“Then there is our answer. The Lokisons have united. We are facing a threat, and we cannot wait for them to rise against us. And they will,” Odin assured all present in the hall, looking to his doubtful son particularly. Thor had appeared for a moment as if he had wished to open his mouth in protest, but he quickly snapped it shut when his father glared. “We cannot afford to assume the best. Nótt Þegnson, please feel welcome to join the fight.”

Nótt began to trip over his words, spluttering out denials and shaking his head nervously. It was Týr who put a stop to this.

“You do wish to cease Ragnarök?” He questioned, and the younger man nodded without thinking, instinctually driven to be as disassociated from that word as possible. Týr then slapped him on the back hard, grinning broadly even whilst he winded the man. “You survived Fenrir _and_ the Nightmare King!” He exclaimed. “You can no doubt hold off any threat from here on out! You have faced the worst and yet here you stand. Þegnson, you are free to train with us if you wish!”

And suddenly he didn’t seem quite as scared. A wondrous look began to overtake Nótt’s expression and fromt then on the assembled Æsir knew then that Nótt was unerringly on their side. Now and forever more, he would fight to the death in any of their names.

“Come,” Odin said to Thor lowly, walking down the steps and returning into the corridors, turning down towards the subterranean levels of the palace. “I have something for you to see.”

Frigga did not follow. She, instead, returned to the stables and pressed her head against Sleipnir’s withers. Below her hand she could feel his heartbeat, pounding too fast, the horse still erratic and distressed from whatever had made him panic. However, he couldn’t communicate the thought, could only get himself more worked up. Frigga drew herself closer to him, seeking comfort in his warmth and solidity. She wished to comfort him as much as he calmed her.

Sometimes she forgot that her son had even existed, but being here helped. Sleipnir allowed her to remember that perhaps, out there, her child was still alive.

\--

Thor was sitting on the floor, drawing his fingers down the wood of the inside of Loki’s prison cell.

“I visited him but I did not see,” he said, running his touch down a stylised face, weeping and screaming in grief. “What is this?”

It was the soulless children, he knew. Beforehand the picture meant little, could have been no more than a strange metaphor, but now... now it was real. Now it showed that Loki was several steps ahead of everyone else. With this carving into the heavy door, Loki was either flaunting his cleverness, depicting his actions and presenting them to the world to show off, or... Or.

“It is your brother’s madness immortalised.” Odin answered, his voice sad with regret. “This is what Midgard is suffering through, is it not?”

“How do we stop it?”

“We do not, except for to find him.” Odin said, shaking his head carefully. “We cannot know where he will strike next. As for those already fallen victim, I only know that there is no way of returning a soul to its owner once the soul gem has it. Those children are as good as dead.”

Thor stood slowly, sadly, and closed the door. His father put a hand to his shoulder, expression sympathetic.

He spoke. “I know you love your brother, Thor, but you cannot deny this any longer. There is a war coming, the end of all things, and I will not see you unprepared.”

“Nothing can prepare us for this battle, father,” he said as Odin guided them both away from the dank room, heavy with the stench of blood which had yet to be completely scrubbed from the floors and the walls. The air was thick with death. “If the prophecy will come true, then we will all die.”

“Perhaps,” Odin accepted, leading them towards a view of the training grounds. They climbed the steps and walked out to a balcony from which half of the kingdom could be observed. Almost directly below them were the gardens and the conjoined stables of the palace horses. Off to the left, warriors were in the midst of battle practise, sparring dangerously, some laughing, some roaring, some criticising another’s performance. Týr stood with another man, studying the comparatively puny form of Nótt and attempting to provide him with suitable armour to don. It could have been an amusing sight, but neither father nor son felt much up to laughing.

“We will move soon, and we will protect these lands,” The All-Father swore, low and determined. “We will protect Midgard along with all the realms who do not side with Loki’s insanity.”

Thor shook his head, watching the passion in which his fellow warriors acted. Underlying each laugh and lunge and dodge was a sharp terror, a panic, of a nightmare coming slowly to life. It sat uneasy in Thor’s gut. Thor, who had never accepted the truth of the Norn’s whispers of the future.

“Loki loved Midgard, once.”

“Once.” Odin allowed, but that had been a long, long time ago. That had been before his children had been taken from him or died. That was before his heart had started dancing to the cold, icy rhythm to which it now beat. Before his mind had inched ever closer to the edge, until one final betrayal threw him down into the swirling abyss.

“He has done wrong, but surely this is too much to consider of him? This is _lunacy_.”

“He is an insensitive creature,” Odin snapped. “One long gone from any form of rational thinking. He wishes to harm us all, Thor, and I will not stand to be beaten by him. Not at the price he is asking of me.”

Thor looked down, unable to meet his father’s eyes as he spoke against him. It felt like treason, but his heart demanded that he speak for his brother in Loki’s absence. Loki could not defend himself here. If he even stepped foot on these lands, he would sooner be ripped to shreds than given audience. Although he would not ask it of Thor, the first Odinson was his brother’s only defence. “He has asked for nothing.” They could not even find him. Thor had not seen nor spoken to him since the last day he had been in Asgard – which had been the exact same time his long lost son had arrived to made it snow.

Odin wished to say something, but couldn’t find the appropriate words. He stood at his child’s side, therefore, and tried not to cave to misery. Meanwhile, Thor thought on about all he had been shown today and what he had seen down on Earth. He resolved to return to Midgard, to help all those that needed it, and to find his brother. If he had to, he would do all he could to personally put a stop to this before the battles crashed down upon all those innocent, unsuspecting realms.

Above them, a large bird watched silently. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh... guys, quick question: how do you feel about 9,000 words of Jor and Hel and Fenrir just sitting down and catching up? This is important, because that’s pretty much what I’ve written for the next chapter.


	23. Blue are the People Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-emptive apologies for the next 9,570 words. If you don’t like Fenrir, Hel and Jör I wouldn’t read this one. However, they all needed to sit down and have a little chat. Also I love them.

What Fenrir would recall most about coming to the strange workshop isolated up at the North Pole was the breath of life that infected every nook and cranny. The tall beasts (almost as big as he!) bustled around, growling, concerned, but much too busy to pay any attention to the newcomers. They, at least, seemed to perceive Jack Frost perfectly well. One even threatened the young spirit non-verbally – a violent gesture which Fenrir wasn’t about to stand for. He growled at the creature menacingly as he passed by, startling it. Good. No one was to make threats to his family, no matter how little time they’d been a part of it.

There was wonder all around him, seeping in through the walls and poisoning the air. It was almost like seiðr – a low hum of magic all around them which made Fenrir dizzy. Excited. Awed.

It also made him cautious. So much magic caused him to feel sick to the core with thoughts of what he used to have, as well as the damage one could inflict if only one had the temperament. However, from what his littlest brother had told him, the owner of this place – one Nicholas St. North, or ‘Santa Claus’ as Jack had called him – did not seem to be the type to utilise his power to unjust means. He had sounded jolly and flamboyant. That at least was not something Fenrir was unused to. There was only so much ostentatiousness one could avoid whilst living with Loki as a father.

However, this happy Russian was nowhere to be seen. At least, the wolf realised, to him.

He dumped Nótt the Vanr on a mostly empty table, knocking some papers and inks and a plate of cookies to the ground. It meant little to him – it was either dump the unconscious man there or on the solid floor. Fenrir was quite happy to do either but the table seemed more polite. Jack wasn’t frowning at him for it, so that was progress.

He stood back and observed as Jack conversed with invisible beings, perhaps figments of his own imagination. Being a spirit – once dead but still breathing – likely did _things_ to the mind. Fenrir wasn’t going to point it out to him. However, when the boy started sitting on invisible perches, he became concerned. The wolf waved out a hand, but felt nothing.

Jack was suddenly thrown to the side, making his siblings jump. “Jack?” Fenrir barked, but the spirit had become too distracted by whatever had knocked him away to reply. Fenrir glimpsed a flash of blue, something that he realised not even his sister could see, cupped in Jack’s white hands. The wolf pulled his brother closer, straining to see.

“What is that?” But upon closer inspection he could tell – it was a little fairy, bright and bird-like and obviously scared of him. It’s terrified face did not fill him with any sort of remorse. At this point, in an unfamiliar location on an unfamiliar realm facing a too familiar menace, he was in no mood to be friendly with strangers.

Hel began pointing out that there was more lingering here than what immediately met the eye. With several tiny humming fairies littering the air, Fenrir could use them to mark out the gaps where magic was thicker than elsewhere. Where there were unseen people – unseen threats.

He was in no mood for this.

As soon as he’d let Jack go the little fairy joined her siblings and they gathered in a dense pack to the right. Perhaps this was the Toothfairy of which Jack had spoken of.

Hel, Fenrir realised, was staring elsewhere, transfixed at the giant globe stand afore them. He himself had been actively trying to avoid it. It was the magic again – there was too much packed too tightly into one small space. It was free and untamed and _powerful,_ and too easily weaponised. Furthermore, Fenrir was no longer capable of weaponising it himself, so that meant it could be snatched up by any half-bit magician who put even a partial mind to do so. It made him uncomfortable. How easy it would be to change this place from wonder to horror.

Jack was still chatting with his fellow Guardians – the invisible creatures only visible to children. He seemed distressed. It wasn’t hard to follow even a single side of what must have been a multiple-faced conversation.

And then they had to leave, scattered across the globe to save the children, the fairies gone with their leader and the yetis remaining, leaving Hel and Fenrir behind in the workshop.

“I smell food.” Fenrir spoke first, sniffing at the air, no longer distracted by potential dangers now that the room was empty. Hel wasn’t paying him any attention, mesmerized as she was with the giant model of the world, glinting with specks of light.

“Don’t you know what this is, Fenrir?” She breathed, and whilst he didn’t know with certainty, he could probably take a good stab at it. For preference, with a knife. The dense magic was making him itch.

“I think it’s beef.” This, at least, broke her concentration.

“Should you be eating solid foods?” She snapped, irritated by him and his distractable mind.

Fenrir said something rude as he left in the other direction, away from the globe and towards the smells. He ignored Hel as she called after him. Her voice was persistent, but she didn’t follow after him. And, concerning his withered stomach, he was more than capable of dismissing it from mind. He was hungry enough to eat an eight-legged horse.

As his nose led him away, he didn’t notice how the shadows grew darker around him, possessed as he was by the thought of filling his belly for the first time in a thousand years.

\--

It was no more than an hour later, and Fenrir felt sick. Hel didn’t have time for his complaints.

“It’s your own fault.” She pointed out, but he protested.

“I haven’t eaten much.” This was true. He had hardly even managed to pile enough meat to cover a plate before he was batted away by the grumbling yetis who were attempting to retain enough food to feed the entire workshop. For his own part, Fenrir could have fought back, but he was preoccupied with dodging the crafty little pointy-headed gremlins who were trying to steal the raw meat straight from his platter.

A yeti had grunted at him, indicating confusion – wouldn’t he like that cooked? Fenrir had snatched the plate away from the hulking creature, shaking his head and grumbling at it. He then had to pull it from an imp hiding on a shelf, leaning down with its tongue outstretched.

He had taken this as his cue to quickly leave, sniffing his way back to the magic where Hel had hardly even moved during all the time he had been gone.

He’d sat at the table by Nótt’s face, shifting the man’s head to the side to make room for his dripping plate. Fenrir didn’t speak, stabbing instead at the meat with the pretty knife he had been gifted back in Vanaheim. He gnawed at the edge of the slab, allowing the taste to explode over his tongue. He didn’t bother to bite back the noises the food evoked in him.

“Would you be quiet?” Hel snapped after several minutes. By that time, the plate was almost empty. Fenrir clicked his tongue defiantly.

“I have not eaten in months. I didn’t even eat the Vanr when I could have.” He defended, elbowing Nótt’s head as he said so. He tore at the meat with his pointed teeth even as his stomach growled against it. He could feel the way the food was clawing away at him, the pain of so much consumption all at once after so long of nothing tearing him from the inside out. However, that wasn’t about to stop him. He could take a little pain.

He hadn’t seen Hel advancing upon him until her shadow cast over his plate. He looked up to see her hand glowing green, heading towards his face.

“Hey!” He barked, flinching back, but Hel was faster.

“I’m sure they’d appreciate some help.” She said as her fingers shot out and cupped his cheek, and he felt his body swirl through a wormhole created by a teleportation spell. It did no favours for his stomach, and landing hard in snowy fields surrounded by demented humans did not make his humour any brighter either.

“Are you not done yet?” He questioned Jack viciously when he saw the state of the town and the screaming humans who were charging at him. Fenrir glared at his spirit brother who was floating, shrugging, above the crowds.

These mindless humans, made blood-thirsty by the magic in their veins and the hypnotism in their eyes, quite obviously wished for a fight. Well, Fenrir was quite prepared to grant their wishes.

\--

“North wants to know why there’s a dead body on his table.” Jack mentioned off-hand later after the news of Burgess – wherever that was – had time to sink in, leaving Jack agitated. His eyes still focused on the globe even as he spoke to his siblings.

“He’s not dead.” Fenrir said in an attempt to ease everyone’s minds, but his own was distracted. His mind had been caught on a small, limp body being brought in on the winds, malnourished and pale with remarkably vivid hair – a particular colour that the wolf remembered fondly. Whilst it wasn’t an unusual sight to spot men and women with red hair on Asgard or Earth, there had always been something special about Angrboða’s shade of ginger. “Like I hope that boy was not.”

“Cobra-eyes is fine. He’s just asleep.” Jack confirmed, before glancing at the Vanr on the wood and the bloody plate next to his head. “But I’m not so sure about this guy. Did you eat some of him?”

“I was hungry.” It was not a truth, perhaps, but the look on Jack’s face was worth it. “Did you want me to begin swallowing these little bell-wearing goblins?”

Jack’s face slowly started to split with a smile, eyes darting into the empty air where the other Guardians must be. Fenrir wondered what their expressions were like and whether they were aware the great wolf was merely playing. “North says _no_.”

“Then be glad it was the Vanr whom I started to consume.”

“He was determinedly eating the food supply for an entire realm, even whilst his stomach can hardly handle liquid.” Hel interrupted, still annoyed about his disturbing her obsessive staring upon the glittering globe, but Jack was laughing and made the corner of Fenrir’s mouth twitch up along with it.

The spirit suddenly jumped up, staring around him and attention sidetracked, possibly by one of the unseen Guardians speaking to him, but at least he looked a little bit more relaxed than before. He had come into the room carefree, but upon glancing to the location of the flickering lights on the globe, a sudden freeze had set about his shoulders. Fenrir wouldn’t have been concerned about this, Jack was a _frost_ spirit after all, but he had seen Jack in a battle situation and even at the worst of times the boy had been loose with energy and determination. Not that deep-set stillness.

However, something upon the globe had made him panic. His instinctive fight or flight had made way for option C: stop dead. But then the invisible but obviously sensible Nicholas St North broke him out of it, inquiring after the state of his furnishings and when he’d received his most recent decorations of bloody corpses.

“There are bedrooms,” Jack said off-hand, high in the air and looking as if he wanted to jump through the skylight – to lose  self-control and go heedlessly across the world to wherever those jittery glows were, to save the children as he had in the other towns. “You should put him in one.” He pointed to the table the wolf was leaning against, and the unconscious man which was on top of it.

One of the yetis shouted towards the empty space where Santa Claus must have stood, shaking his arms around and then his head, as if whatever the man said in return had surprised the creature to the point of yelling.  

“We gotta go. Are you alright here by yourself?” Jack asked, but Fenrir only nodded absently, aware that Jack was paying little attention to them. He was becoming increasingly fidgety as each moment past, wanting to move and save the day. It was Hel which pushed him in the end.

“Surely the longer you linger here, the more danger those children will find themselves in.” Which became a trigger to Jack, who immediately yelled at his fellows and darted out on the wind. Left behind was the nothing but the jingle-jangle of the elves darting around the feet of the children of Loki.

Fenrir was staring at his sister, ignoring the way his stomach was still violently protesting. The fighting had helped take his mind from it and he felt better after spilling blood upon the ground, of reasserting his dominance, more to himself than the humans who fell under his substantially reduced might.

Hel finally caught his gaze, having her own stuck upon the magic again. It seemed almost like an addiction, and he wasn’t happy to observe it in his baby sister. She blinked twice, seemingly realising this herself. She took a breath, and then a step towards her brother. He watched her walk closer to him slowly, and then as she stopped a few steps away, seeming to twist her clothes as an indication that she intended to direct herself into another room – away from him completely.

“I will go check in on Jörmundgandr. Put the Vanr somewhere safe.” She instructed, so used to the mindset of ruler and rulings that she wasn’t capable of asking nicely or treating another as her equal. But he could hardly blame her – whilst she had suffered the least of the three siblings, that wasn’t to say she had not suffered at all. Fenrir realised that this whole family reunion business could turn messy with relative ease. Even if not, it was going to be complicated, slow, and arduous to build anything substantial enough to represent _family_.

As he watched her leave towards the room they had placed his long-lost sleeping brother inside, Fenrir knew that this was still better than before. Their new situation had a great deal of potential to cause them all wells of pain but, at the same time, it could also give them the room they all needed to heal. 

\--

Jörmungandr jerked awake suddenly. He looked around to the empty bed, the cold environment, the silence of the night. There was no gentle snoring at his side of a woman worked off her feet, nor the breathing of children from down the hall. There was nothing - not even creaks of the house bending in the wind.

There was nothing.

He had simply been dreaming.

He shook his head, heaved a sigh, wondered why he felt so tired. He didn’t know the time, but he had some inclination through the sliver of white light slipping in through the curtain that it was late into the day. Someone had kindly cracked the window open, allowing in an icy breeze. It soothed the fire in Jörmungandr’s stomach which was threatening to climb out through his throat and burn the entire building down.

In the faint light, Jörmungandr could see two fretful winter sprites twisting and turning, lost and disorientated whilst trapped inside. He scooped them up in one hand, stumbling over to the large bay windows and throwing open the curtains, releasing them out into the snowy landscape.

He took a moment to stare outside, wondering where he was. The world seemed very small here, the outside air thick with magic and joy and music, and there were some very strange creatures charging around in the snow, leaving heavy footprints and a string of garbled noises in their wake.

He thought for a moment for where he must not be upon not immediately recognising the species of these beings. That he had never heard of them nor come into contact with them over the years was strange, leading him to believe that he was no longer in Midgard. Even the taste of the air was different here – more charged with energy and happiness. But he was hesitant to conclude anything with haste, since it would have taken a phenomenal amount of power to deliver him to another realm. For now, he would assume he was still safely on Earth, in a location previously unknown to him, at least until he was proven otherwise.

Then a voice spoke behind him, in slightly awkward Norwegian: “That was kind.”

Jörmungandr twisted around suddenly, dropping into a fighting stance. He was nervous to be here, and rightly so. He recognised that voice and it shot through him like a sword in the back.

Hel was sitting in a far corner, deep in a wine-red armchair, hands carefully folded over her crossed legs. She watched him patiently, expression vacant. Jörmungandr didn’t ease himself from his defensive posture.

It was worse this time, seeing her. Now it was not just accompanied with memories of when they were children, but also only hours ago when he had been happy and contented with a family in Finland. When things like his _real_ family seemed like a distant problem, lost in the stars. Now, however, with Hel sneaking around with the shadows, Loki causing a ruckus and then _Fenrir_ popping up in the middle of battle, Jörmungandr was beginning to feel overwhelmed.

So, he confronted Hel in the search for answers.

“What happened to me? I fell asleep-“

“A creature called the Sandman used a sleep-inducing spell so to easily transport you from Russia to this workshop. He did not mean you harm.”

Jörmungandr was unwilling to accept that. “I would have come freely. I spoke to the frozen child and _agreed_ to help you.”

“I understand that. However, you would not have seen him. There are creatures here that are protected from sight, and the Sandman is one of them. It may have caused you both great distress had he tried to communicate rather than simply bring you here on his own terms.”

“Kidnap.” He hissed, but he understood the confusion which would have occurred if the Sandman – a Guardian, he was well aware – had tried to direct him towards wherever they were now. Which was the focus of his next question. “Where am I?”

“You are in the North Pole, at the home of Nicholas St. North.” Hel answered calmly, likely expecting some form of reaction – confusion, irritation, fear – but was visually surprised when her brother’s face lit up and he started to bounce up and down on the spot.

“I’m at Santa’s workshop?” He exclaimed, elated, which Hel hadn’t seen coming.

She complained to him, “You sound like Jack. He seemed incredibly disappointed when we did not know who Santa Claus was.”

“You didn’t know?” Jörmungandr said, before his mind caught up with her statement. “Who is Jack?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, thinned her lips, as if she were incredibly disappointed. “As the one stationed on Earth, I had expected you to be consistently aware of Loki and what he has been doing here.”

The snake’s delighted mood born from being in the middle of a child’s fantasy come true soured as his sister spoke, and his lips took on a nasty sneer in place of what had only seconds before been a smile. “Why should I be? He can do as he pleases, he’s a _god_.”

“You should have been keeping an eye on him.”

“What?” Jörmungandr felt like he couldn’t keep up with this conversation, or that he had missed something in translation. “For what reason would I bother? He is a grown man, not a child that needs to be babysat.”

“He’s your father. Surely you must hold even a little interest?”

“Apparently not.”

They glared at each other, each of their tempers caught by the mere presence of another, and it was clear from Hel’s expression that she regretted his being here. He couldn’t find it in him to feel anything other than broiling anger, since it had not been his decision to come here in the first place.

He asked her, “Am I a prisoner?” This took her aback. She shook her head slowly.

“Then I can leave?” He pointed behind her. “Out of that door?”

She glanced to the dark, intricately patterned wood, upon which was a beautiful landscape framed by the hand-made grooves of someone who truly had too much time on their hands. She looked to Jörmungandr, burning with fury and twitching at the thought of remaining in a confined room with her any longer. Once again, she shook her head.

“Good.”

He skirted past her, tugging open the heavy door and slamming it behind him, stalking down a corridor and around three corners before he stopped himself and spared a moment to breathe. The snake sucked in deep gulps of air, wondering whether it had been to do with Hel herself or the tormenting dreams he had been plagued with before he awoke, but he felt on the verge of panic. Thoughts on everything he had lost came flooding back to him where before, in Russia, he had been able to drown it out with blood and guts.

He cast his mind back to Grace and her children, to little Harry and his limp, lifeless body, and then to the violent humans who had lost their minds. He thought to his own blind rage causing even more death and destruction, and then to the red splattered across the snow. This last thought calmed him, just a little bit. Just enough for him to open his eyes and gaze down to the end of the hallway where light was shimmering – golden and curious, doused heavy with magic and glory.

He followed it, transfixed, and every step closer reminded him of where he was. There were pervasive smells of cookies and fruitcake and sherry along with mistletoe and evergreens – smells of a very particular season. Dried orange-scented wreathes decorated the halls – patterned in reds and greens. Christmas time.

Even though it was a human tradition, the Midgard Serpent had been on the planet too long to not be swept up with their excitement and the idea of Christmas and Santa Claus and presents. Though St. Nick had never visited him personally, Jörmungandr was blessed with the knowledge that the jolly fat man did indeed exist. He had not cast eyes upon him, but his magic was a very real presence around the 24th and the 25th of December.

And here he was now, in _Santa’s Workshop_. He was feeling a little heady and light-headed as he finally emerged from the corridor and into the heart of the production line. It just about stole his breath away.

Panic was seeded thick into the air, but it was too close for Christmas for anything else. Jörmungandr hardly noticed, regardless. His eyes were full of skilful yetis and the wondrous sights of magical contraptions and strange ideas made flesh floating through the air, lighting up the entire work-floor and the creatures within it. There were tiny elves jingling around his feet, one or two poking at him as they scuttled by, but he just shook them off absently and continued forward, staring wide-eyed.

He received several curious looks from the yetis, but at this point they appeared more resigned at his presence than annoyed. Considering Hel was here, they likely had to become used to unwanted guests quickly or else face the consequences.

“Sorry,” He apologised to one sincerely as he almost knocked the pile of painted robots from their perch, and the yeti barked at him in a guttural language he was, amazingly, incapable of understand. He expressed regret once more before moving on, keeping his eyes honed on the tables rather than being distracted by the air.

He followed the path through each work station until he found an elevator, into which he followed a very ruffled looking sasquatch who was manning a cart full of bright pink toys.

“Where are we going?” He asked it, but didn’t understand its reply. Whatever it said, it had sounded aggressive. Jörmungandr couldn’t figure out whether or not that was just how they spoke.

The yeti left him behind when it went up only one floor, but the snake had seen how the creature had worked the control and echoed it, pushing the lever up as far as it would go. He found himself several storeys higher than he thought he would have and he clambered over the rail and into a strange room.

Whereas all the other places were bustling with life and chaos and not a small amount of terror, this was a floor practically empty. Hel was standing quietly in front of a giant, spinning globe and a large man with shrewd yellow eyes stood by her, arms crossed heavily over his chest.

Jörmungandr had seen him before of course, back in Russia. He had known who he was even when looking at the back of his head, and seeing his face now almost seemed like a minor detail. Fenrir, his dear older brother. The wolf. So proud he had been when he had learnt how to turn into one, and now he seemed almost like the personification of a wolf in a man; menacing without trying, huge and dangerous. Not a creature anyone would like to cross on a full moon.

Jörmungnadr slunk into the shadows, not wishing to be seen until he was ready, and watched his siblings converse lowly. Whatever they were talking about, be it the globe Hel was staring at so reverently or the scar down his brother’s face, or even Jörmungandr himself, he didn’t care so much to listen as he did to watch their faces as they spoke. So serious and worried. There wasn’t a hint of Loki in either of their expressions. The snake wondered whether that was even a bad thing.

He shook himself, looked down on his gangly limbs that had been made almost black, bathed in the shadows. He realised that running would be childish, and he no longer had time for it. He had seen what had happened the last time he had turned Hel away. He wouldn’t like to think what could happen next.

So, with this in mind but with no shortage of hesitance, Jörmungandr took one step forwards.

\--

Hel turned towards the heavy footfall before she’d even registered what it could be, and likewise Fenrir reacted quickly to the sudden sound that had permeated the silence.

“Jörmungandr.” She said pointlessly, watching as the blazing-haired boy emerged from the shadows, red eyes trained on the two of them with suspicion, with anger, and she wished she could say that she didn’t understand why he was acting so hostile. As it was, with this strange situation and this sudden reunion to which he had long since stated he wanted no part of, it was only understandable that he was wary and irate. He had been _kidnapped_ , for Borr’s sake.

Fenrir was staring at his brother with glassy eyes, looking dopey despite his intimidating stature, sad and almost ridiculous. But then Jörmungandr looked back at him and something melted in the serpent as well.

Fenrir stepped towards his brother carefully, slowly, before the smaller of the two bounded forward suddenly, a burst of speed propelling him into the wolf’s outstretched arms. His freckled limbs latched around his neck and he buried his face in his brother’s raven hair. It was a desperate embrace echoed by Fenrir, who looked as if he would fight the man who dared suggest he ever let Jörmungandr go. 

“Hello, brother.” The red-head gasped lowly, and Fenrir returned the greeting, both hardly daring to deem it to be true. They had so long accepted that the next time they were to meet was on a battlefield at the end of days that it seemed impossible that they were here now, safe and warm and whole, arms curled in a hug instead of dying at each other’s side.

It took them a long time to detach themselves, to step away, to smile and laugh breathlessly, still not quite believing. Jörmungandr kept reaching out to touch the edge of the wolf’s sleeve, whilst Fenrir had a thin lock of his brother’s orange hair caught between his fingers.

Then the snake’s smile dropped as he looked towards Hel. Whilst he no longer looked angry, he still wasn’t happy about her presence. “Why are we here?” He asked, which was perhaps one of the most prudent questions she had heard all day.

“I’m glad to note someone here is practical.” She praised, and this along with Fenrir’s protest at least prompted a slight upturn of the snake’s lips. In its own way, this was progress. “Come,” she stretched out and arm and herded her brothers towards the table, now empty of a Vanr but having since collected several more red-tinted plates. Jörmungandr curled up on the chair, knees to his chest, and pulled one of the silver dishes before him, not even bothering to ask for permission before starting to gnaw at the food with his bare hands.

Like Fenrir, Jörmungandr seemed to have taken personal offence to the idea of layers and shoes. Neither of them were wearing more than what was strictly decent, and shoes and socks were not on that list. It made both of them appear to be, at least to Hel, very vulnerable. For all their demon-coloured eyes and daunting heights, they were naught but children, and here, on this table where they sat immaturely and refused to abide by basic table manners, this was glaringly apparent.

Neither had been taught to grow up – both had simply been thrown into life too young and expected to work it out by themselves. Obviously, isolated and mistreated, neither of the two had managed it.

Jörmungandr’s golden eyelashes flickered with pleasure at the taste of the flesh, practically raw and still oozing, as if he had not eaten for an entire year. Fenrir was quick to point this out to him.

“You lived in the sea, with food aplenty, yet you still look thinner than even our father. Than even I, who ate only once a year and had my food pre-chewed for me!”

The serpent almost choked, amusement clawing its way up his throat and his half-masticated meat with it. “Firstly, that’s disgusting,” he said with a large grin spreading up his cheeks. “And for another thing, what is _that_?”

“What?” Fenrir asked, his eyebrows furrowing as Jörmungandr’s laughter only grew. Hel started to smile despite herself, quickly realising what the snake was referring to.

“Your new accent is wonderful, Fenrir!” He finally gasped out, voice heavy with irony. “It sounds like half of your tongue is missing. Where did you pick it up?”

“There’s a market stall in Asgard where I got this for a good deal. They had to take the tip of my tongue so I can truly make those distinctive garbles they call vowels. It cost me more than I would like to admit. However, because I love you, I’m more than happy to share it with you for _free_.”

Jörmungandr dodged out of the way of the swing of his brother’s fist, faster and smaller than Fenrir, even when laughing as honestly as he was.

“No, really, it’s sublime.” He praised, backing up and climbing onto the low beams supporting the ceiling in an attempt to escape the slow stalk of the wolf. “I’m _very_ jealous.” He stretched the second word, mocking Fenrir’s strange voice, giggling when the wolf growled. A dribbling of blood was dripping down his face, and his teeth were red from his food. He looked positively monstrous as he cackled, but no more than his brother who was glaring and swiping at him like an animal.

“Get down here!” Fenrir hissed, grabbing his brother’s ankle and tugging him into his strong grip. Jörmungandr struggled, but from there on there was no escape. He laughed into Fenrir’s shoulder until both his siblings were smiling with him.

“It _is_ a little funny.” Fenrir admitted, depositing them both down where they had been before.

“A _little_?”

“Be silent, you little brat.”

“Only if you promise to keep talking.”

Hel allowed them to bicker, giving them the time to once again grow adjusted to one another. It mattered more to her that they were back in sync than their being ignorant for just a little while longer. They had been apart for a thousand years, yet already they were falling back into old, easy routines. A brotherly bond as strong as theirs could only be broken for so long. Let them have their happiness before she forced them to face reality.

“What happened to your pretty face?” The serpent asked, staring at the scar running up Fenrir’s cheek.

“You must be looking in a mirror, Jörmungandr. My face is as beautiful as ever.”

“No, really,” he said and even though he was smiling his tone was serious. “Was that where the sword...”

Fenrir licked his lips uneasily, looked away from the freckled face of his brother and nodded stiffly. He didn’t realise Jörmungandr had reached out to touch until his thumb was running down the length of the thick, white line.

“Will it be like that forever?”

Fenrir nodded. “Better this than the sword.”

And here, it seemed, was Hel’s chance. Fenrir’s face was already miserable, as Jörmungandr’s was becoming stormy. Here, now, they would listen to her.

“What do you know of Loki?” She asked her second brother, who glanced to her sharply as if only just remembering she was there. He took a long time to answer her query, but neither of them rushed him. Eventually, he sucked in a deep breath.

“I’ve been told by the humans that he’s the one behind the murders.”

“Murders?” Fenrir echoed as Jörmungandr’s face shifted, darkened with a realisation.

“You did not know? A child was killed in Finland. I had assumed it was the same elsewhere.”

Hel could read between the lines – had seen the happiness of her brother’s face in Scandinavia, and the murderous slope to his shoulder now he thought back to it. “One of yours?”

He nodded stiffly, bared his teeth at the manner of which Fenrir was now gazing at him softly. “When did you grow a heart?” He spat, but it wasn’t truly vicious – his anger was directed internally. He had taken a risk in loving a child and had paid the price for it. Really, perhaps he should have known better.

“Perhaps it is time that we tell you why you are here.” She said softly.

\--

To be honest, even as they recounted the story, it didn’t seem to explain much. What had seemed so clear before – Loki losing his mind and starting the apocalypse – seemed weak under Jörmungandr’s critical analysis. He started to poke holes in their explanation, sharp as a knife: Where are these winters? Yes, the humans are going mad, but it’s only affecting a select few? No, the prophecies probably aren’t _a little_ wrong. If they’re wrong, they’re wrong and if they’re right they’re _completely_ right. Take us, for example. The reason they took us was because we put on our animal forms. They had come to our home looking for a wolf and a snake, and that was what they found.

Eventually, however, it was insistence and all the unexplainable phenomena which convinced him to at least accept that this was more than just coincidence.

“We don’t know if it is him.” Jörmungandr had still tried to argue for their father, even as his siblings rolled their eyes at him again and again. “It seems unlike him to snap so suddenly. And all this soul taking? What could he do with souls?”

“What _couldn’t_ he do with souls?” Hel said, knowing herself the authority in this matter on account of the fact it was she who was the more renowned sorcerer of the three of them. “The spells he could use-“

“How is he collecting these souls? Is there even a spell for this? And all over the world, at the same time?”

This was what made Hel hesitate. It took considerable power and _hunger_ to tear even a single soul from a body – never mind hundreds across the entire realm. If there was a spell for it, she hadn’t heard of it. However, there was something she knew of which could very easily snatch souls straight from their hosts.

She said the words slowly, just to ensure that her brothers did not ask her to repeat it: “The infinity gems.”

Whilst Fenrir didn’t show any outwards reaction, Jörmungandr paled considerably.

“No,” Fenrir denied, as Jörmungandr shook his head. “No, because that would mean he was planning something enormous. _Disastrous_.”

“The End.” The serpent said, catching his brother’s sleeve again as Fenrir clenched his hand around the captured strands of Jörmungandr’s red-hair. They acted as if this was news to them, and perhaps it was. Perhaps before then it was only an absent threat – something that they wouldn’t wish to happen, but nothing which frightened them. Now, they finally remembered they had something to lose. Each other.

“Yes.” She confirmed, settling a gentle hand over Fenrir’s white-knuckled fist and gazing delicately at Jörmungandr. “And we are not going to let that happen.”

“If he has the soul gem, who’s to say he doesn’t have the others? _What_ are we meant to do against him? He would destroy us.” Fenrir pointed out, tugging his brother a little closer to him. The serpent, for his part, shook his head in denial.

“We’re his children,” he said, but it sounded weak even to his own ears.

“He’s forsaken us, brother,” Hel spoke sadly, factually. “He will not show us mercy, even for the sake of shared blood.”

Jörmungandr’s hand rose to his face, as if cursing his own visage. “Monsters born of monsters.” He muttered, a dark chuckle rising from him. The dark humour was appreciated between them. “So, what can we do?” Clearly, he did not remember the terrifying tales their father used to scare them to sleep with. Even Hel had been treated to story time regarding the Infinity Gauntlet. It involved rather a lot of cursing and doubting the cleverness of the men within Asgard, but the heart of the story was still chilling:

_There is a powerful weapon which can make even the weakest of men strong. It can be adorned with six gems, beautiful and potent and together they are unstoppable. But be wary – whilst some can grant even the most impossible of wishes, others can steal your very soul._

\--

It took them a while to once again find equilibrium after that, and Jörmungandr accompanied Fenrir down to the kitchens for more food. Hel tried to warn her older brother from this course of action, but the man barely registered her complaints, clinging tight to his bright-haired sibling and seeking comfort. Hel could not blame either of them.

After they had settled around the table again, Hel taking the time to shift the wooden seats into comfortable armchairs, she had decided that they must move on. There were other things she wished to address now that they were all together – something which would no doubt change the boys’ outlook on life forever, as it had hers.

However, they seemed to have something on their mind as well.

“My eyes,” Jörmungandr said, pointing. “They changed in Finland from green to red. How?”

Hel had been considering this herself. She remembered first meeting Jörmungandr, who looked too much like their father to ignore. His eyes, especially. His irises, like hers, had shone green, vivid in his anger. But now they were red as blood, chilling to behold even when his face held a grin. He was not smiling now.

“Mine should not be yellow.” Fenrir agreed. “This is not natural.”

They looked to her as the more experienced mage to answer their pleas. She, so far, had only come up with one conclusion. It was too tentative to be more than a theory, and it sounded much too thin inside her head.

“As far as I’m aware, you have both been through too much stress.” She explained, and they looked at her blankly. This, she realised, was an understatement. “When Fenrir woke he was already in a traumatic position, made worse by his messy escape. Whereas you, Jörmungandr, recently lost a child. It’s very possible that in these desperate times, you stretched out for something which made you feel strong – your animal disguises. However, weak as you have both been rendered, only your eyes showed any visible change.”

Immediately, Jörmungandr was shaking his head. “We don’t have magic enough for even the smallest transformations. How is it possible for us to reach for something which is no longer there?”

“Would you try, brother?” She snapped, looking to both of them as she said it. “If you knew your magic was just out of reach, would that stop you from attempting to retrieve it?” She could tell from their faces that _no_ , they certainly would not. However, they were also both sensible enough to be aware that it wasn’t ‘just out of reach’ – it was gone completely. However, their bodies were not quite as rational.

“I can sense a strain in you both,” she confided. “A part of you is missing and what is not is fruitlessly trying to reach out into the ether and grasp it.”

“But that doesn’t explain the eyes.” He snapped, and Hel agreed. But something else did.

“Perhaps your seiðr is not quite as far as you think. It’s possible that in the most trying of times, you actually succeeded in reconnecting to your magic.”

Jörmungandr’s eyebrows furrowed, but Fenrir lit up at the prospect, lips splitting eerily, his mouth appearing grotesque with the uneven scar twisting his cheek.

“I can get it _all_ back?” He questioned, and Hel sighed. She had seen the way he had winced away from the globe, along with how uncomfortable he felt here, surrounded by a heavy smog of thick, invigorating magic. It tore him between joy and pain, elated by the effect of the magic over his skin but mourning his own loss. She had been scared Jörmungandr would have reacted similarly, but the ginger had been so overcome by the idea of Santa Claus that it left no room to allow for misery. This was a wondrous place and the serpent treated it as such. It was a place of hopes and dreams.

However, she had no good news for them. She told the both of them plainly how unlikely it was they would once again find access to their lost seiðr. “No one has ever been known to before.”

“This is not a spell widely used,” Fenrir insisted, his accent making his words harsher, more insistent. “In fact, I am baffled they even found the power to do it. No one knows the true effects of this spell – most separated from their magic die after only days, whether by their inability to adapt or by their own hand. Therefore we could be missing anything. We do not know how permanent this spell is!”

“Fenrir, do you not understand what has happened? They may as well have taken a knife to your hair for all that your magic is _severed_. Not hidden, or misplaced. It is _gone_.”

“Then how did I change my eyes?” He growled, jerking himself in her direction menacingly, accidentally pulling Jörmungandr along with him.

“Hey!” He protested, finally taking back his hair when Fenrir proved he couldn’t be trusted with it. A few long stands remained trapped in his tense palms, and the wolf looked down at them sadly. Contemplatively.

“I liked my eyes.” He said, finally. “They were brown, like mother’s. Like Jörmungandr has her hair, I had her eyes.”

Which, Hel realised with some surprise, was a very neat opening for a subject she wished to broach with the two of them. She felt something similar to regret for using this particular memory of their mother as a lead into the upcoming discussion, but time was ticking by and for all she knew this would be the only appropriate point to tell them.

“I have something to show you,” she spoke up, drawing Fenrir’s attention away from the thin strings of Jörmungandr’s bright hair as she stood from her chair and stepped back slowly. She watched her brothers carefully as she began to peel away magic from her skin, slowly undoing every spell and dispelling all glamour enchantments from her body. She made sure to keep her pace careful, not wanting to startle her brothers anymore than she had to.

Upon the final dropping of Hel’s illusions, Fenrir stared with a gaping jaw and Jörmungandr let loose a string of colourful Norsk curse words.

“You’re blue.” He eventually choked out, glancing to his brother before jerking up from the chair, clambering over the table. Behind him Fenrir’s face had regained some dignity and he was frozen stiff with a stern expression. He watched as Jörmungandr took three slow steps towards her and reached out, brushing two fingers across her bare forearm.

The Lokison gaped as he saw the deep cerulean spread across his fingers and began crawling up his arm. He made an aborted noise of disbelief and something which seemed to be almost awe, but he didn’t move himself away until the wolf snatched his hand from her skin.

“You’re blue.” Fenrir harked as his brother had, but it was a much harder tone of voice. Cutting, violent – exactly what she had expected of them both. However, after Jörmungandr’s interested stare, his fear which had been infused with something approaching delight, it now made her skin crawl with irritation.

“And so are you, under that illusion our mother has cast upon you.” She spat.

“No, you are lying.” Fenrir spoke with such certainly that it almost made her want to laugh out loud. “You are a Frost Giant’s offspring!”

Hel couldn’t help herself – she looked to her other sibling for support, even though she knew that, if pushed, there was no chance that the Midgard serpent would side with her over Fenrir. However, she was surprised to find that Jörmungandr’s expression was not at all baffled. Rather, it was closer to _guilty_.

She narrowed her eyes at him and proclaimed: “You were already aware of this, weren’t you?”

“What?” Fenrir barked, spinning his head round to face him and gripping onto his wrists tighter. “You _knew_?”

Jörmungandr shrugged, not sheepishly enough. It was a very dismissive gesture which he had likely picked up from the human children he had been so fond of. “Yes, I knew. Not about Hel, I mean,” he suddenly clarified, wincing away from his brother as if expecting violence. And, as Hel knew what was about to be unveiled, she would not be surprised if Fenrir did start to let fists fly. “It was mother. She’s a Frost Giant.”

“No,” Hel cut across before Fenrir could unleash any of his confusion and anger out upon them both. “Not just her. Loki, too.”

“ _What_?” Jörmungandr screeched, and Fenrir dropped him in his shock. She saw her chance to tell them why Loki had snapped and thrown himself off the rainbow bridge as their gaping expressions kept them quiet enough for her to speak. She let the implications settle inside their heads – the fact that it was not just their parents who were Frost Giants – and suddenly Fenrir’s hulking mass didn’t seem quite so impressive.

She concluded: “However, I didn’t know Jörmungandr knew about mother.”

“How _did_ you know?” Fenrir asked, rounding on him again but keeping one eye on the blue woman in his periphery.

The serpent shrugged again, as if it didn’t much matter. “I saw her change once. She told me to go away when I asked her to do my beads. I considered that strange and suspicious, so I followed her.”

“And you didn’t think to tell anyone?”

“I assumed you all knew.”

“Even Loki?”

“ _Especially_ Loki.”

“So, what, you just presumed that our father, a man who has throughout his life never once wavered in his hatred for Frost Giants and indeed _went mad_ when he learnt he was one, willingly, _knowingly_ married one?”

Jörmungandr didn’t understand why they were throwing him expressions of furious bafflement. “I was a child. I thought Loki knew _everything_.”

Fenrir sighed deeply, stepping back and returning to his seat, sinking heavily into it and staring at the both of them – Hel, especially, as she stood there free of illusions. She knew what she looked like in her natural skin: she was still of a similar face, still sharp and strange and very much the child of Loki, but her body was wider set, she felt larger, more like a small giant than a half-Áss.

“I thought you had half a skull for a face.” Fenrir finally said, as if this were an appropriate replacement for an apology.

She explained to him, “That is also a mere front. Something I believe Angrboða placed upon me to scare the Æsir.”

“Like a Halloween mask?” The serpent asked.

She nodded. “Perhaps if they had feared her less, I would have scared them more. However, as it stood, they simply believed her to have been cruel to me and killed her for it.”

“Why didn’t father speak up?”

Hel smiled tragically. “I do not think he even knew. To him, this illusion would have merged with her previous spell which hid the truth from him. She knew as little as he about his parentage, therefore bearing him Frost Giant children would have destroyed them both. She had to hide us.”

“The protection spell?” Jörmungandr asked, referring to the tendrils of his mother’s magic which still curled securely around him. The spell she had obviously lied about.

Hel had come across it hundreds of years ago when she had become the master of her own magic. She tore away at the spells her father and mother had both placed about her to protect her in her childhood when she had no defence. She picked them apart, learnt from them, and learnt the nuances of Loki and Angrboða’s unique forms of magic. And then she’d found her mother’s deep-set illusions. Then she had found the truth.

“Can I touch you again?” Jörmungandr harked, before sending both his siblings the same incredulous stare they were sending him. “I would like to be blue, too. Unless I’m a bastard. Perhaps my sharing Loki’s face is merely another of mother’s crafty tricks.”

He perhaps had meant it as a joke, but his eyes widened when he saw Fenrir flinch as the mazarine colour reached his features and the magic melted away.

“The truth overpowers her lies.” Hel explained as to why the magic could not hold under the touch of another Frost Giant. She hadn’t meant to panic her brother with her words as he lifted a hand to his face and screeched.

From the doorway several yetis charged in, engaged for a fight at the signal of Jörmungandr’s screaming, and then staring in shock at the alien blue creatures standing in their globe room.

“Shoo,” Fenrir ordered imperiously, managing to loom over the powerful beings enough for them to back away. Behind him, Jörmungandr was having something of a meltdown. Hel sympathised – when she had first seen herself in the mirror, cold and an even, pale blue, she had screamed loud enough to strike fear into every still heart dwelling in her lifeless realm.

“I don’t look like me.” He was saying, mostly to himself, as if his true face was a tragedy. “I don’t look like me! I was only speaking in _jest_!” He was rounder than before, but not by much. Enough, at least, to make him seem healthier. His eyes were a similar red to the serpent’s, but his hair was gone. This, it seemed, distressed him more than anything else. Hel quickly removed herself from him and let Fenrir gather his brother up as his previous image flooded back, freckled skin remerging and hair sprouting from his scalp and cascading all the way down his back.

“Hel does not look much like herself, either,” Fenrir was whispering into the top of his brother’s head, soothing the distress away from him and rocking him like a child. “I’d wager I too am altered.”

It took several minutes for the snake to calm, but he came back to rationality with a weak smile and a small-voiced comment: “Perhaps that was why mother was so fond of playing with our hair, since she was not used to having it at all.” He was staring at Hel’s ridged scalp as he said it, obviously working so hard to accept this as just another ridiculous fact about their family. “How did that even happen? Two Frost Giants who knew not who they were, meeting and marrying and breeding?”

Hel had no explanation. Sometimes the Norns simply liked to keep things neat.

“And this must have been why she glorified those beads so much.” Fenrir inserted. “Almost as if worshipping the gift of hair.”

As Jörmungandr’s laugh got stronger with every passing second, Hel’s mind suddenly became clear. She spun to face the globe, the talks of beads leading her mind back to Jack, who had recklessly headed into danger with his Guardians and had yet to come back. It hadn’t taken them this long last time.

“Loki’s searching for something.” She stated boldly, pointing at the point of the globe which dictated Burgess, which was still blinking on and off rapidly, inconsistently. “There and in one of the other locations. Considering these had all seemed tailored to a specific Guardian, I must assume it was aimed at you, Jörmungandr. You said a child died in Finland – well that is the only place such a thing happened. Whatever it is, therefore, attacking Burgess, it means that Jack is in very real danger.”

“Jack? Who is this Jack?” Jörmungandr asked, realising Hel had not answered him when he’d previously asked about it.

“One of Loki’s later offsprings.” Fenrir answered blithely, frowning mightily in thought. “You have already met him.”

The serpent turned to Hel for confirmation, to which she nodded. “The one with control over the winter elements.”

“The little bird? Truly?”

“Aye.” This was no time for this, for now there was an urgency, a realisation that their youngest brother was going to find himself in harm’s way soon if he hadn’t already. And knowing the luck of the Lokisons, no one was holding their breath.

“So, what are we going to do?”

“We need help.” Fenrir barked immediately, and Hel agreed. However, neither were completely sure which way they were supposed to turn. However, this was the moment in which Jörmungandr decided to prove his worth to their meeting.

“Do you know who SHIELD are?”

Fenrir answered, “The men in the armour? They were in Russia.”

“I’ve met their leader, a one-eyed man named Fury. He assured me they were capable of anything and everything our father can throw at them, and therefore he may even heed our warnings.”

“Why?” Hel asked, aware of the doubtfulness of humans in modern times. The three of them were never gods well liked, but it had been too many years since any humans had so much as feared them.

“Because he knows Loki personally.” Jörmungandr answered, stepping away from his brother and nodding to himself. “I’ll leave immediately and talk to Fury. He likes me, I think we really bonded. He’s almost as if another brother to our ever-growing entourage.”

“Don’t kill him.” Fenrir laughed, instinctively recognising the dangerous lilt to the serpent’s voice. However the human and the snake had met, _brotherhood_ was certainly not something which had come out of the other end.

Jörmungandr reached out to Hel who was quickly replacing her illusions, returning her comforting monstrous visage over her blue skin, and then the mask of pale perfection over that as well. Her brother grinned as her hand circled his wrist and prepared to teleport him away.

“You look good in blue.” He told her lightly, making her smile.

But then a voice cut through her careful spell-casting and broke her concentration. The three of them turned sharply to the far wall where the light did not hit. From the twisting black shadows a long body appeared, half incorporeal and flickering with the darkness, and attached to it a grey face with golden eyes shining deep within shadowed sockets.

Pitch Black spoke clearly and slowly, smiling crookedly all the while. “I’d advise you to belay your trip, little serpent. At least until you hear what I have to say.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO LISTEN UP HERE’S A STORY ABOUT A LITTLE GUY THAT LIVES IN A BLUE WORLD AND ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT AND EVERYTHING HE SEES IS JUST BLUE LIKE HIM INSIDE AND OUTSIDE
> 
> HEY HAVE YOU GUYS SEE IRON MAN 3 YET?


	24. Swept Away, I'm Stolen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was tedious! Hi guys! Sorry, sorry, I have horror stories galore. Mainly: I had exams, I had a new computer with no Microsoft word (in fact I still have no Microsoft word, I am on a free trial) and I have no inspiration. I could go on, but those are the 3 main factors accounting for maybe 60% of the variance. Summary: by the time I was done with my exams I sat down all prepared to write, just to realise I had forgotten how to. 
> 
> However, I am back, hopefully on a decent schedule, and I may even find that blasted muse if I keep looking hard enough.
> 
> Oh, also, happy anniversary Amber! <3

By this point, the battlefield wasn't a surprise so much as a burden.

Jack flitted up into the air as soon as he'd stumbled through North's portal, abandoning the sleigh the Russian had insisted upon (to keep them all together, he said, eyeing Jack speculatively. He was aware Jack was twitching in his hoodie, itching to just  _be there_  already) and spiralling down to earth.

"Jack!" North called out, but his protests were dampened when Tooth was suddenly in the skies alongside the frost spirit, her army of fairies buzzing at her back. Baby Tooth was there too, flying by Jack's ear, and with them all there the sprite felt like he could face the world.

However, as soon as he swooped down beneath the dark clouds hanging ominously over Burgess, all good feeling fluttered away, vaporised by the ominous screaming rising from the streets.

Jack only had one destination in mind. Of all the children he knew he had to save, he couldn’t help but admit that there were a few that were more important than the others.

The Bennett household was empty by the time Jack got there, but he flitted around each room just in case, shouting out Jamie’s name into the dark corners. He checked the closet, under the bed, half expected to see Pitch laughing at him with the child caught between his dusty hands, but aside from the creaking doors set into motion by his frozen wind, Jack found nothing. Baby Tooth helped him, flying faster than even he could, but returning with no news.

He met with Toothiana outside, shaking his head as she looked to him pleadingly. Of all the children in the world, the Guardians owed Jamie Bennett the most. Therefore it was of utmost importance that they saw him safe. With the fact that he was not where he should be, the two Guardians and the army of tiny fairies took back to the air and streaked over the rooftops to find the rest of their allies and hopefully find the children along the way.

The main focus was to discover where Jamie and his friends were hiding, but there was no clue as to where the kids could be other than follow the sounds of conflict on the edges of the city.

Jack and Tooth found the Guardians already there when they arrived, herding any stray children away and lashing out at crazed adults where they could. This was all very familiar, but something seemed wrong. He glanced to Tooth, to North and Bunny and Sandy, but they were preoccupied.

Something itched at him, tugged at his stomach and made him uneasy. He felt something shift around the air at his ankles as he landed lightly on the ground, causing him to jerk back up into the sky, glaring at his feet. Nothing was there. He shared a look with Baby Tooth who hovered by his ear, concerned. She seemed to ask what was wrong in her strange little dialect, but he didn’t know the answer.

He looked up in time to be run through by a cursed human, eyes blue and distant. He jumped up higher into the air with a hiss, searching around for any sign of Jamie or Sophie or the others. He lowered himself down again when there was nothing immediately obvious.

He was quickly distracted by a thrashing man charging towards a little girl a few houses down the road. The other Guardians were consumed by other battles, by keeping the humans back by any convoluted means necessary, including appearing holes in the earth or tripping them through mysterious portals, men and women dropping suddenly unconscious. They were pulling all the stops, but there seemed to be too many infected humans still coming at them time and time again; more than there had been in any of the other towns except what Jack vaguely remembered from the reported horror that was Finland. Something was implied in that revelation – something was special about these two towns – but he didn’t understand the specifics. It scared him, whatever it was.

Being the only one left, he darted without thinking in between the oncoming man and the cowering, screaming girl who was curled up tight in a ball and hiding her face in her arms, making herself a smaller target. His heart hardened as he observed her quivering body, making his touch devastating as his hand pushed through the man’s chest. Immediately, he screeched at the cold, backing away, scratching at the ice dancing over his skin, almost completely consuming his body. Jack knocked the feet from under him with a quick slip of ice suddenly forming in place of the ground, and his head hit the road hard. He stayed down.

Jack looked around at the little girl, catching her peeking up at him from underneath her arm. He smiled at her soothingly, and she raised her head in recognition. “Jack!” She gasped, whilst he realised who she was too. Pippa, one of Jamie’s friends. She seemed alright, thankfully, and his checking her for any signs of soullessness meant that he missed her quick movements until she was wrapped tight around him, ignoring the cold of his body and clinging to his neck.

“Help us.” She was saying, shaking in fear. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

He picked her up carefully, finding it more difficult than he had with Sophie back when he had returned her home from after her adventure in the Warren, but Pippa obviously needed someone, _him_ , and he couldn’t deny her the security gained through contact. “Come on, let’s get you safe,” he eyed the unconscious body of the adult who stayed motionless atop the ice. He called upon the winds, the flight making her cling tighter to him, just to set her down when he perched in the sleigh. She shrieked in surprise when he almost toppled over, but the lingering winds quickly righted the two of them and he set her down safely in one of the seats.

“Where is everyone?” He asked. She shook her head.

“I don’t know. I saw Cupcake, but she wasn’t moving. I don’t think she heard me, but then that guy appeared and I ran for it.” She looked traumatised by her leaving her friend, but it wasn’t as if she could have done anything else.

“Where was she?”

“By the park-“

A faint scream cut her off, and Jack turned to see Tooth already in the air and flying towards the sound. Pippa started to sob, confused and distressed, whilst North backed towards them.

“I will look after her,” he told Jack, and the sprite got the hint. He set off after the fairy, giving assistance to the others as he flew overhead. He threw a few snowballs, as if that would help anything, _accidentally_ catching Bunny in the face. He glared up at Jack, but his next toss of his boomerang had a little more zest behind it.

He touched down with Baby Tooth flying in front, just to stop dead where he stood to stared. He wasn’t the only one. Tooth was hovering nearby, looking a little lost for words.

In front of them a small huddle of children were surrounded by adults, twitchy and violent. They should have already grabbed them, hurt them – Jack had assumed pain and terror was what the scream had signified. However, thankfully, there was one grown-up among them who had not been possessed by the madness. Instead, he fought back.

Unfortunately for all the adults involved, the one who remained was instantly recognisable: the Mighty Avenger, Thor. Jack’s uncle. The god, who was for some inexplicable reason here, and not with SHIELD or in Asgard or in New York; his usual haunts.

But Jack had no time to question it, the sight of him protecting the children instantly bringing a smile to his face as he shot towards him with Baby Tooth squeaking in protest as she tried to keep up. It took Jack a moment to remember that Thor couldn’t see him, but the prince of Asgard certainly recognised his presence, perhaps a magical signature, after he stabbed him in the shoulder with an icy finger.

“Jackson?” Thor hollered wildly into the air, not even pausing in the middle of his fight, blindly lashing out with the terrifying accuracy of a man who had trained for battle his entire life. “Join me in fight, nephew!” He ordered, and Jack quickly complied. Soon enough, Tooth was also by their side, lashing out with a deadly looking cutlass. Jack had no idea of the backstory behind that one, but she wielded it with ease and grace, making it seem almost as easy to use as Thor did his hammer. Jack felt inadequate besides them, burdened with a staff and some cheap icy tricks, but, though it was no Mjölnir, it would have to do.

When Thor got a knock-out hit on the last woman left standing, he turned the entirely wrong way whilst seeking out Jack in the air. Jack flicked at his nose, but didn’t pay him any more attention, dropping to the floor to look at which children were huddled together.

“Jack, is that you?”

Jack had never been so relieved to hear a voice as much as he was thankful it was Jamie’s. He crouched down beside them, digging the staff into the ground when he felt himself tumble to the left, but righted himself quickly. Jamie and Sophie were clinging onto each other, Sophie having been the one to scream. She was now sobbing into Jamie’s t-shirt. Next to them sat Cupcake, blank-eyed and vacant. Tooth gasped, running her hands down the girls face as if to call her soul back to her body with her gentle touches, to no obvious result.

“What’s happened to them?” Caleb asked, and it was then that Jack saw that Cupcake hadn’t been the only one infected. Caleb had wrapped his arms around his brother, but Claude didn’t react. Caleb was biting his lips, trying to keep from crying, looking at the three figures around them as if they had all the answers.

“’Tis a curse, Jack,” Thor said, as if he didn’t already know.

“What are you even doing here?” He asked, because curiosity was eating at him. But Thor didn’t hear him, and it took Jamie, knowing Jack well enough to figure out why the big blond man wasn’t answering, to relay his speech to him.

“I had reported to Asgard about your brother, Jörmungandr.” He admitted. “And then I came back to speak to SHIELD. They told me of this anomaly. It is a good thing I came when I did, else these people may have harmed the children.”

“We need to get them to safety,” Tooth ordered, and Jamie translated this to Thor as well. He nodded, picking up Cupcake and Claude, though Caleb refused to let go of his brother’s hand.

However, they were waylaid by a sudden cold gust of air, and Sophie screeched again.

“What is it?” Jack said, tugging the two Bennetts closer to him as Tooth flitted in front of the entire group, sword posed threateningly, eyes sharp and alert for any signs of a threat. She shook her head after a tense moment, not finding anything. She turned around, shrugged, seemingly still sugary sweet even with a sharpened blade in her fist. However, as soon as she went to look at Jack, her eyes flickered to Caleb, body tensing.

Caleb was shaking, but he seemed paralysed where he stood, staring at Thor’s forearm absently, simply because that the direction in his eyes happened to be last pointing. Jack jerked forward, trying to click in the boy’s face, draw his attention back to reality, but there was no luck. Jamie tugged at his hoodie, shaking his head.

“That’s how Claude looked before he stopped moving.” He said quietly, whilst Sophie turned her head and buried it in Jack’s shoulder. “I don’t know about Cupcake. We just found her and then…” he looked to Claude, still empty and pliant in Thor’s arms, limp, like a rag doll. “Then Claude.”

The cold breezed by them again and Sophie clutched onto them a little tighter. However, this was almost as if a goodbye, and it left Caleb the same as the other two, blank and emotionless. Jack had not seen the souls being taken before, and had only arrived in the aftermath; had only had to fight off the insane. It chilled him to the core, swiped every thought of fun from his mind, and it made him queasy. It was like the run up to Antarctica all over again, with the desperation building up inside of him alongside the realisation that there was nothing Jack could do to stop this from spiralling out of his hands. How was he meant to fight an enemy who swept in on the breeze, invisible, untouchable?

It was almost like he was describing himself, he realised. No wonder the Asgardians had been so panicked when he appeared out of nowhere, bringing foreign snow along with him.

“Did you see the magic, Jack?” Thor’s voice rumbled over them, but Jack shook his head absently, still staring at Caleb.

“What magic?” Jamie asked when Jack didn’t look as if he was about to.

“It is the curse, young one. I did not see it until it touched me, and it is quite possibly what was causing the adult humans to lose their minds. It was strong – magic like that should not touch a human psyche.”

“Why didn’t it affect you?”

Thor managed a chuckle to the child, even amid all this madness. “I have been subject to one too many spells, child. It takes more than a tickle of a spell at my ankles to do me much damage. I grew up with a magician for a brother. I was always his victim of choice when it came to casting newly learnt spells.”

“Why is it targeting children?” Jack then asked, pulling Sophie closer whilst Jamie also caught her sleeve. Thor shook his head.

“That I cannot answer. You would have to seek out the man who cast the spell.”

Jack had a feeling he knew who that was. His face darkened, and he took a moment to sort through his anger, to find some sort of equilibrium again, to put himself back in a mind-set where the future seemed hopeful and his father wasn’t out on a murderous rampage, stealing children’s souls and driving people insane.

The snow started to fall around them, thick and burdened with his emotions, but Jack could not put a stop to it. Rather, it made him feel stronger, his element surrounding him, protecting him.

“Are you okay?” Jamie asked, but before Jack could gather himself to answer, another cold gust swept over them. Thor and Tooth jumped to action, putting down the children, not knowing for certain if it was a side effects of Jack’s powers or an actual attack, but neither were willing to take that risk. Jack held onto Sophie and Sophie to Jamie, but after a few moments of nothing it was unclear whether anything was happening. Tooth and Jack started to relax, but Thor did not. He cast his eyes around again, and as soon as he twitched, pointing a quick finger, Jack had his staff aimed in the same direction, firing off a burst of ice and then looking to Thor for feedback.

Though he had apparently hit it, Thor was still shaking his head, moving quickly in their direction, towards the children. “It did not work,” he said, moving to slam the hammer in the ground in front of Jamie and Sophie, but was suddenly thrown off balance by a screaming woman who gripped him by the neck and hair, tugging at him whilst he was mid-swing. Thor was thrown out of the action, whilst Tooth and Jack didn’t know what they were looking for. They glanced to each other, panicked. Whilst their attention was distracted the cold shivered over them again.

Jack only realised what had happened when Baby Tooth tugged at his hair, squeaking frantically. He looked over slowly, hardly daring to believe it, and it wasn’t until Sophie called his name that he came back to himself, blinking hard.

The little girl was staring at him as if he had the answers, but when he continued to say nothing and could only watch as Jamie’s body lost all movement, she began staring too. She was crying, panicking, and Jack had seen that face before. It dragged him out of his misery, and got him to focus on the now.

“Sophie, look at me,” he tried, though her gaze kept shifting to Jamie, whose hand dropped from her sleeve slowly and dangled uselessly at his side. “Keep your eyes on me, Sophie. We’re going to play a game, okay?” He gathered up the strength to think of a game, like hopscotch or a snowball fight, anything, but nothing came to the forefront of his mind. He tried to think, but it was as if his mind had stepped on the brakes, stopping him from working. Damn it, he was the Guardian of _fun_ , why couldn’t he remember how to act like it for the sake of a child? At this point, Sophie was the most important little girl in the world, and he needed to protect her.

Thor was up a moment later, finally managing to untangle himself from the woman’s insistent limbs, coming away with red scratches marking his face and a frightful expression about him. He looked to Jamie, soulless and lost, and his eyes got that bit darker. It did not matter that he hardly knew the boy; that he had failed to save him was enough for Thor to have made a serious enemy in whomever was on the other side of this magic. He would not be forgiving to his brother now.

“Sophie, what game do you want to play?” Jack asked, but she was shaking her head, still looking at Jamie, still crying and shaking and panicking. Jack was stuck for how he was supposed to help her.

The icy wind flew over them again, Sophie cried out in time with it, and this time there was no mercy in Thor. However, the magic seemed to anticipate him; evade him. Though Jack could not see the invisible foe, he watched as Thor spun in a graceful circle, all his training focused in his perfect form and footwork, swinging his hammer to and fro, trying to catch it with his mighty weapon.

He glanced up at Jack once, saw how the spirit was lost for what to do other than hope that Thor got their enemy before it got the last child in the group, and he lashed out quickly, unexpectedly, aiming his swing in Jack’s direction as if hitting a baseball.

Jack felt something whip at his face, knocking him back and up into the air. He shouted out at his uncle furiously, checking his cheek for any injuries and blinking a sudden burst of light out of his eyes.

“Do you mind _not_ swinging dangerous magic my way?” He implored the god, but realised belatedly that Thor had given him a gift.

“You’re not alive, nor are you human. You are of magic!” Thor explained whilst Jack watched in amazement as a trail of decaying green magic danced around the god, as if attempting to dizzy or confuse him with misdirection. Too bad Thor seemed to be used to that sort of trickery. “I hope that it did not affect you in any way.”

“Did you just throw that at me on guesswork?” Jack gaped, but, of course, Thor didn’t hear him. However, the winter sprite now had the same advantage as the Asgardian, and could see the poisonous magic as it creeped towards Sophie. She, however, could not, and telling her to run could very easily cause her to trip straight into its path. “Sophie,” he cooed again, smiling as happily as he could, pretending as he had with Emma all those years ago that the situation was nowhere near as dangerous as he knew it to be.

Luckily, Sophie seemed to be trusting enough to accept his word when he said she was okay, that they were all going to be okay, no matter how much of it he knew to be a lie. Thor and Tooth didn’t say anything about it, Tooth having gathered the empty children together whilst Thor battled on with the light, and for that Jack was thankful. They both let the frost spirit do what he was so good at, why he had been chosen as a Guardian in the first place: save the children who needed him the most.

“We’ll be fine, but you have to look at me. I know Thor looks funny, but focus on me. We’re going to play a game, alright?”

She nodded nervously, whilst Jack kept Thor in his periphery. “Do you know how to play hot lava?”

She shook her head, and Jack explained the rules. “It’s very simple. Pretend the ground is lava, and you don’t want to step in it.”

“But it’s snow!” She protested, and Jack could see the way the magic slithered over Thor’s body, how he writhed in discomfort, snarled in anger. His patience was cutting short, and it was making all of them jumpy, most especially the already frightened little girl.

“No, it’s lava.” He corrected, putting effort into keeping his tone soft and playful. She shook her head, and he recognised that she was just too distressed to play. She had seen her friends and brother taken by the magic, she didn’t understand what was going on, and Thor’s building anger was not helping her nerves.

“Sophie,” he started, trying to distract her attention again, but was cut short when a cry from Thor signalled the magic cutting free from him, making a beeline towards the child. Jack reacted quicker than his own thought processes could follow, snatching up a snowball and injecting it with his own brand of magic, tossing it towards Sophie before it even had time to harden.

It interjected the path of the magic, the green trail rearing away as the snow exploded in the girl’s face. The child squealed suddenly, but it was not terror which now infected her – a smile cut across her face, despite the awful situation they were in, and she screamed, “LAVA!” at the top of her lungs, jumping up and hopping away from the magic, straight into Jack’s open arms.

“I’ll save you, fair maiden!” He played along, lifting them both up from the ground and pointing his staff at the ground, letting the ice spread threateningly towards the magic. To Sophie, it would seem as if he were cooling down the lava, at least in her active imagination, but to Thor and Jack it was much more significant.

The magic flitted away, recognising a lost battle, almost sentient in its retreat, and Jack pressed Sophie closer to him as the cold went with it.

“It’ll be back,” Thor said, so Jack took to the air, not wanting to hang around and wait for it to return. Thor and the tooth fairies took charge of the rest, though Baby Tooth stayed resolutely by Jack’s shoulder, assuming a role as a watch out for anything unusual.

“Jamie?” Sophie asked, but Jack couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop and wait for the others to catch up.

“Where have you been?” Bunny asked as soon as he landed by the sleigh, Sophie squirming in his grasp and causing Jack to tumble. North caught his arm, and Sophie clambered from his arms, running in the direction where they had just come from.

“Jamie!” She called, her path aimed back towards the park.

“Whoa there, ankle-biter,” Bunny grabbed her quickly, throwing a boomerang in the same motion, catching a man around the back of the head. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Jamie!” She kept on repeating, no longer interested in the game and now resolutely concerned about her brother.

“Where is her mother?” North wondered, but Jack shrugged.

“We found them by the park. I figured they were probably running from all adults.”

“There do seem to be a lot of them,” Bunny agreed, passing the girl back over so Jack could direct her to the sleigh. She was much less compliant than Pippa, who was still sitting inside, obviously anxious. When Jack passed the little girl over to the older, she clung onto Sophie tightly, happy to see at least one other person okay.

And then the cold was back. North and Bunny and Sandy didn’t recognise what it was, likely thinking it was due to his presence, so did not shift their attention from their human foes. Jack, meanwhile, cursed the winds, cursed the magic, cursed his father. He was getting sick of this game and gripped his staff tighter.

Sophie scrambled away, running to Jack and hiding behind his legs, but the magic didn’t seem interested in the little girl anymore. It was too fast this time, aiming straight between Pippa’s eyes. Jack was too late in shooting a sudden bolt of frosty lightning just shy of Pippa’s nose.

“Pippa, are you okay?” He asked urgently, calling the attention of the other Guardians with his panicked tone, but Jack could see the light ebbing from her eyes, quickly, disastrously. _No_ , he was not losing another one. He had only just managed to save Sophie, and he was going to save Pippa too.

He lashed out, striking at the magic with his own, his snowballs flying through the air, hitting the girl squarely in the forehead, his aim impeccable as always. The effect wasn’t spontaneous, but she quickly began to waver, started to blink slowly, then rapidly, eyes seeping back into their usual colour as if fighting the hold the green magic had over her soul. It started to emerge from her, making her cry out, writhing and fighting the influence of Jack’s own sorcery. Jack could just about weep, swiping at the magic violently as soon as it was once again visible, wondering if he could chase it away a second time.

However, it was the quick smash of Mjölnir which stopped it dead, smashing it apart making it scatter several different ways, which finally ceased the onslaught. Though the humans had yet to give it up, the children seemed to be safe for the moment, the warmer air returning despite Jack’s presence. It was all he could have asked for.

Pippa glanced at him confused, not quite sure what happened, whilst he sat Sophie back down beside her and told them both to sit still. He then took only a moment to catch his breath, to thank his lucky stars, to pointedly ignore his losses and forcibly look at the bright side, at least he saved _someone_ , before taking to the air and joining the fray.

“What was all that about?” Bunny said in between strikes, and Jack assessed how much ground they had made. Despite the fact no adults seemed to be unaffected as they were quickly coming to realise, they were making considerable progress. One of the great advantages of being unseen, Jack supposed. And having the mighty Thor on their side.

It was then that he noticed a flicker of red hair, and a woman he had seen before who fighting alongside them. She wasn’t from around here. Why _she_ hadn’t been forced into blue-eyed madness was a question best saved for later. He’d rather be glad they had another ally than start tempting fate.

“Is that the Black Widow?” He asked, stopping for a moment to be awestruck, whilst North grinned broadly.

“ _Da_! She is a very impressive young lady!”

Jack could see that. He watched her precise and debilitating motions, made to seem liquid within her smooth execution, whilst she quickly and effectively dropped her enemies and kept safe another small group of children – all of whom, Jack noticed sadly, were already lost to them.

The sight fuelled his anger, motivated him to fight harder and faster, to make sure that even if they were fighting a losing battle, at least they could give as good as they got.

“SHIELD are on its way.” She reported to Thor when the blond stepped up to fight besides her, and he nodded seriously, working effectively with her at his side. They were in sync, as any team member should be, and it worked to their great advantage. Individually they were brilliant, but together they were undefeatable. No human stood a chance against them, not matter how reckless or unpredictable they were.

Jack started to think on the implications of what she had said of SHIELD as he iced the floor, his best contribution to the control of the insane, watching as humans screamed out, skidded, fell. Burgess was lost, he realised. If the children’s souls had been stolen away and the adults infested with this blinding madness the magic created, Sophie and Pippa were the only two left. SHIELD would come in and take care of them, load the town into the helicarrier, isolate the violent adults from the passive children, and keep the two conscious ones under careful watch. The town was as good as killed. Jack tried not to let this overwhelm him.

He was suddenly aware of Sandy trying to catch his attention by his side, still herding the humans together, knocking as many as he could out with his dream sand, but with their constant moving it was harder said than done. The golden man was attempting to convey something to him, concern perhaps, but Jack just shrugged and flitted ever higher, looking down on the entirety of the town and ignoring the ache tugging at his chest.

This was his _home_. He didn’t want to see it lost, and refused to accept that it already was.

His bird’s-eye view allowed him a broader view of the numbers they were facing and it suddenly seemed daunting. But then he caught sight of the gas station where the showdown with Pitch had happened before, when he had joined the Guardians, and he remembered they had faced worse odds with a more dangerous opponent. Whilst the curse set upon the children was certainly more terrifying than even Pitch had ever been, even at his worst, the angry humans were not as dangerous and elusive as the nightmares had been. They pierced fear into their enemies by their mere presence, making themselves seem bigger, more dangerous, and infinitely more frightening. Some angry humans, therefore, paled in comparison.

Something suddenly caught in the corner of his periphery, however, before he could collect himself and return into the fray. His attention was drawn to the outskirts of the town, where there was movement where there shouldn’t be. A man, he realised. But despite the fact they had been sure the adults had all been touched by the magic, this individual was not moving in the same way. Rather, each step seemed careful, precise, measured. It took Jack a long moment to realise that here was a person who was in their right mind, yet had not stepped in to control the madness. There was only one conclusion: the magician who was behind this insanity was in Jack’s sights, and the spirit of winter was going to take him down.

Jack was still getting used to this whole ‘teamwork’ thing, and didn’t even think to call for help until he landed hard upon the ground and by then it was too late. He blamed his almost stumble on his anger which shuddered through his body the longer he stared at the man now kneeling in the dirt.

His back was to Jack and he was clawing at the hardened, iced ground, frantic in his motions. Jack didn’t announce himself, but as soon as he moved the figure jolted, spinning around to face him, eyes flickering around when he was met with the sight of empty air.

The gaunt face was a shock to Jack’s system, although he had already known who it was. The green eyes landed in approximately the right area where the spirit stood, exactly in the same way Thor’s did. Jack was a presence sensed, but not seen. This could work to his advantage.

Loki stood silent, still, his fingernails caked in dirt as he tensed, waited, quite obviously expecting something other than this drawn-out stillness.

Whatever had happened to him since Jack had seen him last had hit him harder than anything he had suffered before. His wild hair and mud streaked face suited him ill.

“Jackson?” He barked into the air, face twisting. “Where are you?”

“Here, you bastard,” he hissed, darting forward with his staff outstretched, pelting the man with ice and frost, sharpened by his fury, made deadly in rage. Loki threw up a shield of magic, ricocheting most of the icicles, but his reactions were just a little too slow. A noise got caught in his throat when three smashed into him – one breaking over his chest plate, whilst another caught his arm. Jack was particularly proud of the slash which bloodied Loki’s forehead, though the expression on his father’s face was deadly when he looked up, black with anger. Jack took a step back.

“Why are you doing this?” He screamed at the god, beyond rationality, glancing to the town where the sounds of conflict echoed over the rooftops. He had lived here in the past, and his father had too. Why would he do this to a town he had once loved?

Loki did not hear him, of course, and only flung a set of throwing knives in his general direction, the blades flying too wide for Jack to be concerned.

“Stay away!” Loki snarled into thin air, but Jack couldn’t let him win. This time the trickster was quicker when Jack shot the ice lightning his way, and it crackled around him for a long moment; enough for Jack to get in close and blow an icy breeze around him.

To his great surprise, and despite the great success of his frozen breath making grown men scream even when Jack was weak in the heat of the mid-day sun of Australia, Loki did not even flinch. He lashed out instead, using Jack’s known proximity to his advantage and sending a blast of something unseen towards the spirit.

It tossed the boy backwards. He flipped in the air, but his leg collapsed when he landed and this time he struggled to get up. Luckily the attack seemed to have blinded him once again from the bruised god, who swiped blood from his brow and stood stock still, tense and waiting.

Hurried footsteps dirtied his expression further, and Jack turned to see North and Tooth charging towards him, as furious as Jack was, blades drawn.

Thor loomed behind them, feet thundering against the layer of snow which had blanketed the town as he landed hard from his flight, stopping dead as soon as Loki locked eyes with him. Loki’s fists clenched, and a frozen knife formed in his hand, as if from the snowflakes in the air circling around them.

He threw it Thor’s way, narrowly missing North from where he ran, stopping the unseen assault when North dodged out of the way, sliding on the ice and only catching himself by stabbing his sabre into the ground. Thor himself smashed the projectile in mid-air, but by the time he looked back at his brother, Loki was fleeing into the outlying trees.

Tooth shot after him, but stopped when Jack called her back.

“They trees are pretty dense, and your wings-“

She waved him off impatiently, huffing. “Have you not seen me fly?” She reprimanded him sharply, and he sheepishly looked away, refusing to admit to her that he wasn’t just worried about her catching a wing in the forest. If she caught up with Loki, well… But Jack wouldn’t say that out loud, lest she actually thump him. Toothiana had been known to punch hard enough to knock out _teeth_.

“You said it’s a curse, what kind of curse?” He said, rounding on his uncle, but Thor, of course, did not perceive him. Damn it, of all the times to not be seen, why now? He tried to grab the man’s attention, but the god ignored the icy touch upon his arms and face, growing more insistent and prodding as Jack became irate. However, eventually Thor’s eyes hardened, mind resolute on whatever he had been brooding over glancing back towards the town where he could see black helicopters swarming overhead the main combat zone. He batted at Jack, taking a running step after his brother. His large figure was quickly lost amid the shade of the trees.

The Guardians then looked between themselves, feeling the tragedy of what had happened seep into their bones. Jack was twitching with anger, almost blinded by the heat of it, and his fellow protectors of children looked to fare no better.

Somehow, even though he wished nothing more than to track down his father and shoot at him until something stuck, Jack managed to ask after Pippa and Sophie.

“They’re fine,” North informed him thickly, clearly repressing his own rage for the sake of his friends. It would not help them if he were to suddenly lash out at nothing, screaming and curse inventively, let it all out, because in the long run it would do nothing. The town was still destroyed, almost all the children left soulless, and there was nothing they could do to fix them. Pippa had been saved by a snowball and her own strong will, fighting back against the magic whilst she still could. The rest of them were a lost cause – without their soul, there was nothing for Jack’s fun to influence. There was no spark of life left in them to manipulate, to play with.

Jack glanced over to where Loki had been digging with his hands, landing awkwardly as he poked his toes at the gouges made in the frosty dirt.

“Are you alright?” Tooth asked, hovering above his shoulder, and he nodded, not quite trusting himself to answer in case his treacherous tongue spat out the truth. Instead he said, “Loki was looking for something here. I don’t know what, though.”

Tooth called attention to the markers, a small line of stones which were set apart from the landscape by their vivid hues; one was pure white, almost invisible underneath the snow, whilst the other line gleamed a bright orange, even under the dark cover of clouds.

“They’re graves,” North concluded, knowing hallowed ground when he saw it. Jack could feel the magic crackling in the air, how uneasy he felt just by being here. “This place is protected, blessed. Your father was trying to rob these graves.”

“What’s in them?”

Neither of the Guardians knew, and it baffled Jack to realise he did not either.

“They look old,” he said. “As old as me or more, and I have never seen them before. I know these woods, I knew them even before I died, and,” he stopped, took a breath, shook his head. “Why have I never been here?”

“They’re fairly unassuming,” Tooth tried, but Jack was looking around, not quite able to place the formation of the trees. Honestly, he would swear on the memories of all he held dear, he had never stepped foot here in all his elongated life.

“I didn’t even notice this place existed.”

“Likely by design.” North concluded, smoothing the ground over where it had been disturbed. “Unless you wish to exhume these individuals yourself, let us hope that your uncle catches Loki. Only he has the answers now.”

Jack looked into the trees, unable to hear anything, unable to see. Even if he tried to spot the brothers from above, the wooded area grew too close together. As a child he found great joy in this, finding it easy to hide within the landscape and evade his mother’s attentions. Now it proved a hindrance, as he could no more tell whether Thor had found his father, or simply gotten lost between the branches.

They were hopeful for the former, since Loki was their best lead to finding and stopping this madness, this evil, from spreading further across the world. Unfortunately for everyone, Loki could also teleport. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, look who came to show his pretty face! Loki sweetie I have missed you <3 
> 
> That said, this was a really hard chapter to write and holy Christ on a cracker I’m glad to see the back of it.


	25. To Know and Feel Too Much Within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really shouldn’t have been as hard as it was.

Running wasn’t an unusual feature in his life, Loki thought, darting through each tree. In fact, as far as he could recall, it was all he ever seemed to do.

It started with Asgard, a thousand years ago, aliens chasing him as they were now. He was burdened, at the time, with a snake coiled around his neck and a wolf at his ankles, but as soon as they reached the edge of the forest the snake turned into a boy in his arms, and the wolf became another, gripping at the tails of his cloak.

“Come,” he remembered saying, hiding his face in his hood. The children followed at his heels.

They melded into the market crowd, and Loki glared when people called out to him. He could sense the presence of the enemy, of Asgard’s finest, pounding through the trees after him. It was meagre protection here, one that would not last, himself and the children lost in the sea of faces, but at least it was something. The child at his boot was tired from running, and the boy in his arms was weeping in fear. They didn’t know what was going on, but Loki’s panic had terrified them.

On a usual occasion Loki did not panic, but he had not been able to remain calm when he heard his wife’s roar even over the miles between them. Loki had been on a hunting trip, and it seemed that he had not been the only one. Asgard had traced him and his family, deep into empty Norway, and had found Angrboða at the sturdy wooden home they had crafted. Then the warriors had set it on fire. The smoke plumed over the treetops, and Loki could see it even from the market place.

“Is that your-“ One man tried to ask, but Loki silenced him with a growl. Another had also noticed, and did a count on the younglings accompanying him.

“Where is the girl?” Once more, Loki snarled in reply, feeling animalistic, furious, beyond himself with terror and rage. That was when people started noticing him properly, the arguments and chatter coming to a halt, and with it the war cries of the Æsir rang through the trees towards them.

“What’s happening?” Someone asked, but he did not answer, hiding further inside his clothes, pushing through the bustle of scared people, coming out the other side and hurrying onwards, further out in the opposite direction of his pursuers, not for a moment believing he could get away.

If he had looked back, he would have seen the hooded humans as they turned their back from the strange men chasing after him, confusing the foreigners with their featureless cloaks. It didn’t stop them, of course, but it spared the trickster and the children a few moments, allowing them to shift into their magical forms, veil themselves and pray they would not be found.

No magic could conceal them from the wolves on a hunt. There was only so much running one could do before their legs gave out and their terror overcame them.

Asgard caught up to him and the children. He clung to them fiercely but they were ripped from his hands.

From then, the running had never stopped.

Most recently had found him breaking out of Asgard’s prison cells, running through the long corridors of his childhood home and pushing open the doors to his quarters, snatching the beads from where they were laid by his bedside. They had belonged to Fenrir, were delicate with age, the string nothing more than dust held together by inactivity. Loki looked to the gleaming red bead he had made for the creature once, so many years ago, before changing his mind and abandoning the memories. He left them were they were, searching instead for the secret pocket of space time which he had sequestered away, the entrance hidden within his own walls. Once relocated, he extracted another string of beads, Angrboða’s, and slipped them away safely about his person.

He could hear the commotion rise as his escape was announced throughout the land, and so he took his leave, fleeing down the halls and outward on a mission to see Heimdall. He had to ask after the snow before he left.

Outside he had found his answers, he had found a temporary ally in Pitch Black who was curious as to what plots Loki was devising this time. Through him, the trickster had found passage to a separate realm. However, his recollections were fuzzy, barely put together, half of them seeming faint and terrible, his mind awash with the white haze of nothingness.

He remembered leaving Hel, the terrible creature with a beautiful face, and finding himself adrift. He was running. He was always running.

This time was very much like all the others. There was no escape, no stop to the chase, no means of avoiding the endgame. For all that he was tricky, sly, intelligent, most things boiled down to Loki running for his life.

He had been wandering the worlds, aiming to never stop, to never stay in one place long enough to be recognised, to be tracked down. He did not want anyone to find him, not until he was good and ready. Without his magic he was almost completely open to attack, could only work so hard to defend himself, could only go so far. But it was not even days before he was found, the golden eyes of Pitch Black finding him, grinning at him terribly, taking him away. He recognised Vanaheim as they landed, he recalled the way the flora had been formed, the unique twist of the leaves and the curve of the trees. He remembered waiting with baited breath for something to cross his path.

He didn’t know what it was, but he could taste magic in the air. He yearned for it, craved it, his thoughts overtaken by the notion of it. It called out to him, _his_ magic, a strange, homely signature which Loki was unused to sensing outside of himself. He wondered whether it would be enough to break the bonds Frigga had cursed him with.

There had been a face framed by snow white hair, looking up at him with wide eyes and pleading demeanour – one which should have appealed to some sort of mentality, something he may have had once – but it was an expression which only glinted off his armour and made him more confused. Angry.

Loki had not quite been able to distinguish him at first. Hundreds of years of a memory did that to a person; made features fade into oblivion even as he tried fruitlessly to grasp onto them. But it was not so much the figure itself, but the _feel_ of the spirit, which latched onto a thought, a peek into the past, that had him acknowledging a truth.

It felt empty, a vague sort of realisation, but by then Loki was beyond caring. He was far gone from introspection. Perhaps there should have been something more, but the word _son_ was lost on him. He hadn’t any emotional attachment to the phrase now, and could feel even the meaning of it slipping away as the seconds ticked by.

 _Father_ , his brain brought up as an alternative, but his own experiences of Odin and Laufey clouded any other potential definition. _You’re a father_. No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t like them. He wasn’t them.

Then a name swam to the forefront of his disjointed head, cloudy and heavy but insistent.

“Jackson,” he said, and he was rewarded with a nod from the white-haired boy. That was strange. No one else in his family had that colour. He wondered where Jack had inherited it from. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He had arrived through a portal, glimmering, shining, powerful. He was intrigued by it, recognised that it was a viable way out if the magic did not snap the chains instead.

 _A child_ , his mind kept on repeating. _A child._ His child? He denied it. He was not _them_.

Jackson spoke of Fenrir, and this caught in his head where little else did. Fenrir, the beast, the giant wolf with a gaping jaw full of teeth, magic strewn through every fibre of his being, repressed, denied, abused Fenrir. A creature worthy of Loki’s attention. A being who would join his forces, if only given a little nudge. He would want revenge. Loki would need something so strong by his side.

 _Children_ , an echo rang about his head and he could hardly bear to hear it. _Useless children_. 

“You know where he is?” He asked Jackson, who seemed fearful and weary, but pointed Loki in the right direction. “How do you get there?”

The boy spoke of a snowglobe, and with his words Loki felt himself overtaken. He was in front of the boy in seconds, disarming him and taking him by the throat in one smooth move, before snatching the charmed object with another. He gazed at it, watched how the red streams of magic swirled and danced, its potential not yet achieved. It was itching to be used, and now it was Loki’s.

And there was something else which was Loki’s too. He smiled as he looked upon Jackson, the one who had what was not his to own. He almost felt bad for what was about to happen, because it was going to hurt.

“Do forgive me,” he said, because there was no access to his magic from here. What the boy was doing with his magic was lost on him, but it would have taken time and energy to get it inside his body. Whatever had happened, why Loki thought it appropriate to inflict a significant chunk of his own energy on this scrawny little creature, he had certainly ensured it was securely lodged inside the spirit. Loki would have to go in deep to extract it.

His searching fingers dove in fast, past the resistant flesh and muscles, savouring the wet squelch of a successful intrusion. It was drawn to him, his magic, as if a magnetic attraction. Without the meddlesome barrier of skin and bone to split them apart, it rushed to him, fed into him, flooded through him like a gulp of air in the middle of the ocean. He breathed it in as Jackson screamed.

It took only seconds for the boy’s usefulness to reach its end, and Loki discarded him. Whilst Jackson managed to grab the snowglobe from Loki’s grip in a feat of surprising energy, it mattered little. Loki could feel his few found magic flicker not only inside him, reconnecting with the trapped magic, but searched questioningly outside of him, a tickle over his skin reminding him what it felt like to be free.

He saw the boy scramble for the activated portal, swirling now in the direction of Earth. The little golden one, the Sandman, rushed towards it ahead of him. Loki saw it fit to stop the taller spirit, something possessive and angry lashing out to grab at the slender white-haired spirit and pull him up short. “I shouldn’t let you leave without at least thanking you.”

Jackson was wavering under his hold, shivering with pain, adrenaline burning out fast. Loki took the remaining moments of consciousness to display to the child how far that sliver of magic had gone to help Loki when he needed it the most. In its own way, it was a cruel gesture. It made Loki smile. “ _Thank_ _you_ ,” he emphasised, before letting the boy down as his eyes slipped shut.

He couldn’t have helped loosening his grip, and the portal shut in his periphery abstractly, the whirring colours blurring together as he felt the rush of magic burst forward, violently, agonizingly. Jackson wasn’t the only one to drop to the ground, Loki quickly following suit, head bowed to the ground, keening, clawing at the dirt, as he felt seiðr overcome him, overwhelm him, in a manner it had not since he was a child with too much power at his disposal.

He cursed under his breath as soon as he realised his vision wasn’t going to become clearer, or his head wasn’t going to stop spinning. His next step was to get somewhere safe. Safer than here, at least. Somewhere contained, quiet, perhaps on a different realm altogether. He had safe-houses dotted around the universe, most of which had been compromised or discarded over time, but they’d have to do for now, at least until he readjusted to his own magic; his own body. It tasted thick in his mouth, like blood. It might have been blood.

He managed to scrounge together enough spare control to cocoon himself within a teleportation spell, etching out the circle, flawed and shaking as it was, in the mud just to ensure that his magic couldn’t backfire. He was about to initiate it, with an incantation of all things, because he was trusting himself less and less when his head felt about ready to explode, when something in him jerked. He found himself looking over to the bleeding body of the child called Jackson, and he stared at it for a long minute.

He didn’t bother thinking too hard about it as he struggled to stand and ended up collapsing by the boy’s side, because his head was adamantly protesting any extreme thoughts. He briefly managed to wonder if he had killed him. But that didn’t make sense, he realised, since the boy was already deceased.

Though Loki couldn’t recall why he knew that. The boy was certainly a spirit, but not like any he had known.

Jackson was still breathing, but each heave was laboured. Loki wasn’t feeling any pang of conscience or guilt, but rather a kinship. A duty. He had harmed this being, therefore he would heal him. Though that made no sense, either. Loki had no kin.

Nevertheless, incapable of higher thought, he didn’t question this either. He put an unstable hand to the boy’s wound, closed his eyes with some relief, glad to see the darkness, before pushing some of his overactive magic outwards. He didn’t know the effect it had, he was hardly concentrating and as soon as it was released from him the world behind his eyelids exploded in a riot of sounds and colours once more, causing him to cry out. For all he knew, he could have exploded the boy, or turned him into something ghastly.

As it was, when Loki finally managed to stop cradling his head and blink himself back into the day, the bleeding had stopped. He counted that as a success, growling in pain as he clambered up, and forced himself to walk away. If this was his reward for a good deed, very similar to most rewards for his good deeds, then he refused to put himself through it again. If the boy died out here, it was no longer his problem. He had done his duty. His head felt a little clearer for it, but it was not enough to stop the trees from closing in, or the sun to seem too bright. This time when he stumbled back into his sloppy teleportation circle, he managed to get away.

The next thing Loki remembered was flashes of a recovery, most of which was destroyed by his paranoia, by the chase. He was after someone. Someone was also after him.

Even with his magic back, he was still trying to recover from the shock of it coming back to him all at once. He wasn’t stable. _Useless_.

However, he still had business on Vanaheim. As soon as he felt capable of walking out into the sunlight without feeling himself break apart, he found himself on Island Lyngvi, searching through the trees and rocks for something that was no longer there. Instead, he had found Hel.

 _There had been a plan once_ , he realised, but he could not remember what it had been. She spat ugly words at him, accusing him of horrors which curled his guts, but also made him stop to think.

“Did you kill him?” She asked, speaking of Jackson, the flighty spirit with no more use. It angered him, her question, but he could not tell her why.

And just like that, he was running again. Running from her, his thoughts, and the ever present eyes which cut through his psyche and spat cruelty at him; drove _him_ to cruelty. He was growing aware of it now, the external feed of another inside his head, talking to him. As his strength increased with his magic, as he started to come back to himself, he began trying to drive them out. He was managing them inside his mind, keeping his awareness a secret as he tried to trace the source. He came away with nothing to show for his efforts, but a trace scent of magic that was too far to follow, still weak as he was. There were ways to help himself, but the closest was Asgard and Loki did not think he was ready for such a dangerous trip.

Instead he kept himself quiet, listening, sometimes disbelieving, oftentimes forgetting himself as his mind spoke alien words. In the moments of lucidity he had an idea as to what was happening, but more often were the periods where he knew nothing more than his name and the fact he had to run.

A presence startled him one morning, long before the sun had even arisen on whatever pitiful realm he had ended up on. It was something of magic, invisible but existent, and he darted after it as soon as he had snapped open his eyes. He rose from fitful slumber, head too full of voices to relax, and that day he had been angry about it.

He could feel its strength through the folds of the realms, and he snuck across the unseen pathways linking the worlds, passing through the cosmic branches of Yggdrasil covertly, knowing here was an answer.

He found himself on Asgard, standing, blinking, in the weapons vault, not entirely sure how he’d gotten there. He felt the strange, alien, powerful magical presence lingering in the upper floors of the palace, searching. It was as if it had been magnetised towards something very specific.

And now it turned its head to the vault, towards something more.

Loki didn’t need to do more than cast a lazy glance around the room to know precisely what that magnetism had been caused by. As he stepped carefully towards the gauntlet, he felt laughter bubbling up in his throat, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like his own.

The next moment it was evening, perhaps the same time, perhaps days later, and he was standing in Finland, touching a face carved into a tree. It was disgusting, a cruel beast, a monster of stories, but Loki knew the visage. He knew why he was there, and he touched the bark with a magic tinged finger, a cross-like symbol appearing beneath the picture. It meant ‘ _scoured’_.

Beneath it, he couldn’t help but write: _Don’t misunderstand me_. A touch of whimsy, of sentimentality. He cursed himself for it now, running _again_ , through trees on the other side of the realm, attempting to gather up his nerves, his wits, his brilliance, finding magic run through his shaking fingers as he tried for teleportation.

He realised, not for the first time, as he heard Thor (the golden creature from Asgard) in frantic pursuit, that something was very wrong. His head screamed, a riot of noises and sights and sounds, things he believed he remembered, other things he assured himself were figments of the imagination. Things he didn’t recall happening, but also things he was happy to forget. Disjointed memories, lies… So many _lies_.

The winter sprites lined the trees, screeching and pointing, but Loki swiped at them when they got in his path, uncaring and terrified as he tried to get away. To run from the noises, the chase of the god hot on his tail, the voices.

His body burned with exhaustion, too little sleep and too much movement, hardly present in his own head. But he knew he could not stop, his feet pounding at the mud beneath his feet, darting to and fro through the foliage.

He slipped behind a broad tree when he caught sight of a light up ahead, before a tense moment of silence made him realise he had not run full circle but had instead found the other side of the forest. He didn’t comprehend it immediately, considering he remembered this haven to be larger. It took him a long moment to recognise the reality of time, the way the worlds changed, how many years it had been since he had known these woods so well. His rationality slipping with the clarity of his memories scared him suddenly, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was then he heard the silence closing in around him, not even the chirp of birds in the canopy overhead. His heart was a loud thump in his chest, quick with panic, and he pressed himself further into the bark at his back, calculating how far he could sprint before finding himself unprotected by the cover of the plants.

However, before he could make a move towards escape, he found his path cut off by a hulking figure, towering overhead, packed with dense muscles and a furious expression about his face. Loki could have cowered, but Thor was too familiar to scare him.

“Loki!” The god announced, a roar more than a word, and Loki only smiled, slow and emotionless, for lack of a more appropriate reaction. Thor was handling his hammer with only a veneer of calm restraining his molten rage. “What were you doing to those graves?”

Loki thought back, to the time before he had been running, the mud, the dirt, the snow. The filth of the ground was stuck underneath his fingernails, smeared across his hands. He had been digging at unforgiving floor, attempting to reach down, down into the depth of the earth and pull something out.

“What are you doing here?” Thor asked, not much softer this time, and Loki hardly knew how to answer him. There was a buzzing in his head, a screaming in his ears, and he couldn’t think over it. He cast his gaze up to the green overhead, spotted strange creatures that should not be there. He’d seen them before, in Vanaheim. Loki snarled. They weren’t even trying to be subtle.

He grabbed Thor and pushed him away, further into the shadows of the trees and away from the alien birds which blinked at them intelligently. Thor followed obediently, like a child. Useless.

“Be quiet,” he hissed, when the Áss repeated his question. Loki drew a symbol in the ground, his magic too chaotic under his skin to control, and it dampened the noises around them. It would protect what they say, keep it between the two of them. For some reason, this seemed imperative to him. Loki didn’t linger much on the why.

“Those were graves you were desecrating,” Thor accused, and so Loki stood accused. More so over, he was guilty as charged. He nodded absently, eyes still shifting across the high branches, thankful when nothing immediately appeared. They’d come, though. They’d come.

“Loki!” Thor called, and it snapped the man’s attention to him.

“What?”

“What is so important? Why have you been lowered to robbing the resting places of innocents?” _Who is buried there?_ The unspoken question was boomed as loud as those which had been said openly, and Loki would not be surprised if Thor’s volume did not somehow transgress the boundaries of the dampening field. “What are you searching for brother?”

Loki shook his head in reply, because these weren’t the right questions, this wasn’t the right time. Thor was not meant to be here. Thor was an anomaly. Thor was destroying everything.

“They’re _mine_.” Because they were. “They’re my family, and mine to do with as I see fit.”

“Family is not property, Loki.” Thor protested, but what did he know of burying his own? What did he know of watching the people he loved being lost underneath dirt and grime, to never reappear again? He knew _nothing_.

“Their remains are! Their resting places and all within them are! They’re _mine_!”

“Who are they?”

“Humans.” Loki said, but was at a loss besides that. He did not know, nor could he find it within him to care. “Just humans. One of them has something I have need of.”

“What?”

But Loki didn’t know that either. He placed a hand to his forehead, but neither words nor memories came to him. He didn’t know, but knew it was important. He was shaking with the need of it, or perhaps that was the headache. He hardly felt present in that moment, bigger than his skin, outside his bones.

Thor’s hand on his shoulder grounded him, spun him, make him snarl. He swiped at the contact, the touch sickening, but Thor would not let him go. He pointed his blue eyes towards Loki, and Loki blinked slowly, trying to pay attention to the shapes Thor was making with his mouth. Noises, too, he realised belatedly.

“What of the magic?” Thor asked again, after jolting Loki’s shoulder with his mighty strength and almost tossing the slighter man to the floor with the force of it.

Loki asked, “What of it?”

“Why are you casting it?”

“Casting what?”

The birds were flying towards them again. Loki watched their descent to the topmost parts of the trees. He glared when they turned his eyes to him, reaching for a knife tucked away on the inside of his coat. Another hand on his arm stopped him dead, and he looked to Thor again. He remembered he had a spell and a god of thunder on his side. Somehow it made him feel worse. He did not owe anything to the blond god and he did not want to. He tried to pull away, but Thor’s grip was not forgiving.

“The Tesseract is still present under my father’s careful watch in Asgard!” He called loudly to train Loki’s attention securely on him. Loki struggled against his hands, lashed out with his feet, trying to find the leverage to kick him away, but Thor dug his fingers securely into Loki’s forearm and clung on. “What is controlling these people?”

“Asgard? _Asgard_.” He breathed, remembering the vault, the presence, the gauntlet. “They took it, didn’t they?”

“’They’? They who, Loki?”

“Tell me!” He screeched. He saw Thor’s face crumple in confusion.

“What?” He asked carefully, hopefully. Loki did not even attempt to interpret it, once again coming upon the conclusion that he was missing a bigger picture. He felt queasy with it, unused to being so far out of the loop that he no longer recognised there had ever been one.

“The beads. The beads in my rooms.” It was important. Red. One was red. Like blood.

“The beads? Fenrir’s beads?”

“Useless!” He spat without prompting, without filtering his mouth. “What?” He asked himself.

“What about the beads, brother?”

“Did they take them, Thor?”

“I do not know. There have been larger concerns, as you well know-“

“No,” Loki shook his head, fighting Thor once more. “ _Nothing_ is more important.”

“Than jewellery? What is the meaning behind it? Why are you so fixated upon a bead?”

Impossible questions, and Loki clawed at Thor’s hand desperately, to no avail. “Loki!” Thor snapped, but Loki did not know. There was a lot he did not know.

“Why don’t I know?” He’d had no intention to speak out-loud, so startled when Thor answered him.

“What do you remember?”

“Let me go.”

“Loki-“

“Let me loose!” Thor finally took away his hands, allowing the mage to stumble backwards and find his own legs again. They were, as they always had been, beneath him. He’d forgotten for a moment.

“Listen to me, brother,” And Loki did, though he did not want to. He knew what Thor was going to say before he said it, since he was already disturbed by the notions. “What do you remember of Asgard?”

Once more, this was the wrong question. He shook his head, because he did not know what the right one was.

“What of it? You have lost my beads.” This was better. Here they were back on track.

“What of the beads?” Thor was becoming frustrated now, angry without his answers. But Loki could not provide them. Wouldn’t, even if he had them. Thor closed his eyes, appeared to gather his patience about him, and Loki could not remember seeing that look about the thunder god before. However, Loki also knew that he could not remember much of anything. At least not in order.

“What of Jack?” Thor asked, rightfully recognising that there was no more he was going to get in the way of clues regarding Asgard. However, they were woefully away from where they should be once more, as the blond buffoon decided to switch onto an irrelevant subject.

It took Loki a moment to correlate the name with the thing, but proved easier as the snow fell around him. He was referring to the spirit of winter, who had attacked him even now. “What of it?”

“Him,” Thor corrected. “He’s a him.”

Loki sneered, but reworded: “What of _him_?”

“Do you recall him?”

“Yes, of course. The scoundrel sprite who interrupted me, attacked me unprovoked-“

“His visage, Loki, tell me his face.”

“What for?”

Thor’s look was strained, but determined. Loki’s mind started whirring despite his rebellion, and although he wished not to think upon the worrisome gaps in his memory, dark holes where otherwise should be colours and sounds and lights, he could not help it. He wanted to tell Thor precisely how Jack had looked the last he saw of him, but it was fading.

“He has-“ white, but that was ridiculous- _further back_ \- brown? No, it was not brown- Loki stuttered, strangled himself on his own words, ended up stating, “Hair.” He cursed himself his foolishness, when once he had commanded over words, turn of phrase, lies, and yet now he could hardly tell the truth. He hissed, “Useless,” instead, under his breath without his permission. An echo from a mouth that was not his.

“What are useless?” Thor thought back through their conversation, more than Loki could have managed. He repeated the words, “Fenrir?” and “Jack?”which made Loki furious. And then he concluded the common denominator. “Why are your children useless?”

Why are your children useless? _Useless_. A word made evil by his tongue. Damning. Jack was useful, so he had put a hand through his stomach. After that, he was useless. Yet Loki healed him. As far as he could recall, not that he was trusting himself.

Yet, regardless, Jack haunted Loki even so.

“Loki,” Thor said carefully, approaching him again but this time with caution. He leaned forward with great significance, and Loki wanted to spit in his eye. “Children need no reason to exist.”

He searched the magician’s face as if looking for a sign Loki understood, but he would be disappointed. He was wrong. Loki had no intention of consorting with anyone outside of their worth to him.

Thor reached down and pulled a string at his neck. He displayed it in the shadowed light and gripped the back of Loki’s neck so he could not turn away. “Look at this, Loki, do you remember it?” It was a crudely made necklace, the string plain leather and the pendent a stylised hammer made of bone; a tribute to the reality which was held in Thor’s great hand. Loki shook his head, thinking it ugly. “You made it for me, when we were but boys.”

“It is grotesque. I did not make it.”

“You were only just learning to craft,” Thor said with a slight tilt of a smile. He slipped it over his head and pressed it into Loki’s hands. “I could not yet wield Mjölnir, so you made me this with the promise that someday I might.”

Loki pushed away with a scoff and Thor allowed him to go, because that must be a lie. Such sentiment was beyond him.

Thor’s eyes darkened with understanding, and relief swept through Loki’s gut like a breeze picking up the dust, blowing it away. Finally they could speak of what was important, and not of hammers or spirits.

“Is this what drives you to it, Loki?” He asked, and the mage feels his stomach sink. The god’s voice was heavy and vicious, and Loki feared he would not be able to run fast enough this time.

With great hesitance, against his own advice, he found himself questioning, “Drives me to what?”

“To the end!” Thor roared, clearly upset, agitated, furious. “To the soulless children who stand in that town, to the winters that overcome us, to the creatures that run loose and dangerous!” And finally, something clicked in Loki’s mind.

"Ragnarök?" The mage laughed, voice weak with disbelief. "You speak of Ragnarök?” Loki hardly gave the blond time to nod before his chortles became hysterical and cruel. “You think this is _my_ doing? This has _nothing_ to do with me." He threw a knife of ice Thor’s way, and the warrior only just managed to dodge its trajectory. Loki had rather hoped it’d pop his earnest, angry eyes straight out of his skull.

“But the children’s souls-“ Loki shook his head, because he was once more drawing a blank, and he hated the feeling the more he found he did not know. “What of the winters?”

“It _is_ winter, Thor! That is what of the winter!”

Thor argued, “They’re everywhere! In Vanaheim, on the other side of this world! It came to Asgard! Your son! The prophecies!”

Loki only glared at him, the prophecies one thing he could only forget if he burnt his mind away completely, piece by precious piece. It would take more than simple madness, or a spell, or his own magic eating away at him, whatever this was, to wipe away the words seared into his mind. The three winters were only the beginning of something much more dreadful.

“But what of the carving on your prison door?” Thor asked, but Loki didn’t deign to reply. As with all else in this conversation, Loki found himself at a distinct disadvantage; unable to follow the words the thunder god was spouting, as if they had been said in the form of some unanswerable riddle.

Thor turned to him suddenly, and Loki winced away like a wounded animal. The man barked, “What did you do with the gauntlet?” The man shook at him, making Loki ache with the roughness on his still healing, undernourished body.

He answered, “The gems-“ whilst his mind was cast back to a time where he had snuck into the weapons vault. He had taught them all a lesson when he had first touched the glove. “I took them. Scattered them.”

“What for?”

Loki snarled. “For it is pigheaded and arrogant of Odin to assume the gems and glove could be kept safe together.”

“So it _was_ a display of power?”

“But you’d have never guessed,” Loki laughed, thinking back to his cleverness; his devious ploy. “You can hardly see the flaws.”

Thor shook his head, dropped him again, whilst Loki lost himself in his cackling. “You speak in tongues.”

“It’s a talent of mine.”

“Speak plainly, brother, or I shall force the words from you!”

“Such threats,” Loki was still mirthful with his own brilliance, and the realisation that finally Thor was the one who knew not of the true reality they faced.

Nevertheless he tried to guess, stating, “There’s a gem here? In those graves?”

Loki took pity, raising a single finger and correcting the lug of a god. “A _shard_.” Of course it was a shard – bright, glimmering orange, vivid and dangerous, influential in its own way. How Loki craved its presence, its touch. It was imperative he reach it before any others.

Thor didn’t comprehend his words, those blond brows furrowing in confusion, and it made Loki snigger again. At the same time, irrationally, he felt irate. His fists clenched, though his laughter pervaded the air, and as it rose, he felt the bone hammer dig deep into the skin of his palm.

“A shard?” Thor repeated stupidly, and Loki snarled, his fury taken him on its wings.

“Did you not hear me before? Yes, a _shard_. I need it.”

“Of what?” Thor demanded, because he apparently was truly as idiotic as he appeared. “The Infinity Gems? They’re unbreakable.”

“Who told you that? _Odin_?” Loki laughed, briefly recalling a time he was instructed to stay from the Infinity Gauntlet, for fear of the power it held. _Indestructible,_ the god with the white hair had told him.

Thor looked at him for a long time, squinting his eyes in contemplation. Loki only smiled at him, observed him in return, the ridiculous loon of a god was he.

Eventually, the blond spoke: “I do not know what has happened to you, Loki, but I will not give up on you.” Loki snorted. Thor glared. “If this is truly not you who has done this, then you must join our cause to stop whatever is happening.”

Loki’s reply was a bark of laughter, and the single word: “No.”

“Why?” Thor growled, but Loki’s eyes had been drawn from him, mind suddenly, unusually, distracted as he raised a hand to the sky and saw frost sprites glitter as they were carried away in the wind.

“It’s snowing,” he realised.

“Aye, brother, ‘tis your son-“ But Loki heard no more. Unfurling his fist and taking his magic with him, he wrapped himself in a protective layer of seiðr and went to find shelter from the frosty weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry if this was a touch hard to follow. Thor’s gonna try and make it clear with his interpretation about what just happened in the next chapter. Also, I bet you guys have figured a lot of what’s happening out about 3 million years ago, so thank you for at least pretending to be surprised =D The next chapter should be easier, what with all the not crazy characters involved. See you then.


	26. One Interpretation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey, what’s this? An update that didn’t take over two weeks? Ahhh! It’s a miracle!

Tony Stark wasn’t used to be kicked out on his behind this early in the morning, but that was usually because he was the one doing the kicking and not vice versa. It would have been a bruise on his pride had it not been for the fact this wasn’t a one-night stand, and Nick Fury had every reason to want to throw him out of the window.

Tony hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d spent the night locked securely away in his lab, picking at the laws of the universe, theorising and debating with JARVIS long after even Bruce had called it a night. He was charged up on energy drinks, caffeine and whatever he had managed to grab from the kitchen before storming here at bumfuck in the AM.

Fury, Hill and Coulson had been up and about, not that Tony thought they ever slept, but they hadn’t been happy to see him bright and early for breakfast.

Admittedly, he had been ranting and raving, arms waving wildly and feet stomping about in the Iron Man suit, and sometimes he forgot he was dangerous when he was mad, so it was no surprise that Fury had roared at him to haul his butt out of sight until he was in a more civil mood. However, Tony had a few things to discuss, and he wasn’t about to stand silently.

He had seen the news. What’s more, he had hacked in to some of SHIELD’s secure files when the night had drawn out too long. He wanted answers. Like, _what the hell is going on_ , and _who is doing this_ and _why children?_ As it turned out, these were the pertinent questions. Unfortunately, no one seemed to be able to give Tony any answers.

He had complied when Fury pointed him outside, but only went so far as strip himself down to the sweaty t-shirt and jeans from the day before, and then he was back, hounding at the director with one-hundred miles-per-hour queries. Too few of them were answered, and none of those that were proved to be satisfactory.

Fury kept on saying, “I have bigger things to deal with right now, Stark,” which was not entirely truthful. Tony was becoming a masterful Fury-reader, and could tell what was false and what was not.

“Something bigger than a disease which has inexplicably put hundreds of children into comas and driven adults mad?” Fury glared, and Tony knew he was right. “I call BS.”

He’d been kicked out again eventually, with Fury getting news that someone else was here to see him. Someone more ‘important’ than Tony.

Hill had guided the inventor firmly to the door, and didn’t reply when Tony tried to bargain his way back inside.

“I just want to know what is happening-“ but the door slid shut in his face. He huffed, turned away, and considered how soon he’d be able to plant a bug in SHIELD’s meeting room.

Whilst he walked down the corridor, all the while plotting with not a single pang of guilt on how to infiltrate SHIELD’s defences, he was distracted momentarily by the appearance of bare feet pointed in the direction he had just come. The feet passed him and Tony stopped, turning his head to further investigate.

With his attention grabbed, Tony couldn’t help the long slide of his eyes as they hiked their way up willowy legs hidden under skinny jeans, to the fall of long, fiery hair which stopped just above the hips.

He was ogling, he knew, and it was a bad thing, he’d sat through enough harassment seminars and been lectured enough times to recognise it, but Tony was starting to realise he had a type, and that in itself was something of a novelty.

That said, ogling or not, he didn’t regret it when he spotted something less than delightful clutched in one pale hand. It was sharp, it was dangerous, and it glinted ominously under the artificial lights.

“Whoa, hey!” He called out suddenly as the person started to draw closer to the door. The offending individual looked over their shoulder towards Tony, curious rather than taken aback, but their features made Tony’s heart stutter in his chest and his throat close up.

He threw himself at the now red-haired Loki with as much force as he could muster, not surprised when it got him nowhere. He managed to shove the god hard into the wall, tried to grab at the knife to no avail, but it didn’t take Loki long to recover.

With just a twist of his body, he had switched their positions – Tony was being held centimetres off the ground by one of Loki’s hands, whilst the other pressed the flat of the blade against the inventor’s cheek.

Loki’s expression was off-putting, Tony realised. The last time he’d been this close to the deranged man was seconds before he’d been defenestrated. The inventor really didn’t want to repeat the experience. However, the god of mischief had seemed angry then, whereas now he appeared perplexed.

After a few seconds silence, in which Tony struggled to breath and Loki observed him critically, like looking at a specimen, the psychopath eventually proclaimed, “Iron Man!” as if it were a wonder.

When Tony nodded, unable to make a snarky reply whilst his trachea was being slowly crushed, Loki suddenly let him loose. He dropped heavily to the floor, coughing. Loki prodded at him with his bare feet.

“You don’t look very iron.”

Tony sorely wished he could say something about the fact Loki was now _ginger_ , but had to give himself a few minutes.

Loki had crouched down beside him, tapping his knife absently on his knee. “Sorry, you startled me. It’s not clever to attack a monster. We tend to bite.”

Oh, the innuendos Tony could make. It was a shame he could barely breathe.

The door slid open suddenly, and Fury and Hill were outlined by the slow dawning of the sun. They glared at Loki, who grinned in return.

“I didn’t break him permanently.” He informed the two SHIELD agents innocently. “He’s only a little bruised, aren’t you, Iron Man? You know, I’ve heard a lot about you. There was this one kid I knew who wouldn’t shut up. Seriously,” he slipped the blade into the back of his jeans, before offering Tony a hand. The inventor pointedly refused to take it. This didn’t deter the strangely hyperactive god, who carried on talking as if he hadn’t been ignored. “You were all he ever talked about. He wants to be you when he grows up-“ he paused, glanced to Fury for a moment, before his smile slid off his face. The words stopped abruptly.

Tony glanced between the agents, then to Loki. The air was stifling with its awkwardness, and the genius billionaire eventually managed a cough and a wheeze.

“Loki,” he said, pointing, to which the god in question sighed dramatically. He held out his hand again to Tony, but this time to shake.

“Hi. My name is Jörmungandr, Serpent of Midgard. Nice to meet you.”

Tony scoffed, smile sliding up his face despite himself. “Hi. Tony Stark. We’ve met before.”

“We have?” But then the sarcastic slide of Tony’s tone of voice seemed to register. “I’m not lying, I swear. Director, tell him.”

“That’s not Loki.” Fury said immediately, but Tony only shook his head in disbelief.

“Loki is the _God of Lies_ ,” he felt it necessary to remind everyone in the room.

“He’s also pretty good at disguises, as I’ve been informed. Now, I don’t know if you noticed, Stark, but that isn’t a good disguise.”

“Which obviously means it can’t _possibly_ be Loki.” But now the suggestion had been made, it wormed itself into Tony’s scientific mind and forced him to face the evidence. Loki certainly hadn’t been _acting_ like Loki, but then the whole ‘God of Lies’ thing covered that too. He was a con-artist by trade, and faking a personality was not beyond his capabilities. Even if that personality was a hyperactive ginger who smiled a little too broadly.

“It’s not Loki.” Fury repeated impatiently.

“Thor said so himself.” This man calling himself Jörmungandr stated smugly.

“What’s more, is that Loki was just spotted down in Pennsylvania, in a town called Burgess. Thor has just called in to say he had a little chat with his psychotic brother, which means you’re here just in time.” He nodded to Jörmungandr, who smiled again happily.

“That’s lucky, since I’ve have news too.”

“And where did you get this news, exactly? As far as I’m aware, you’ve been holed up in the middle of the Arctic.” Fury glared, rightfully distrustful. Jörmungandr shrugged unapologetically, knowing that no one was going to like his answer.

“The Boogeyman.”

“The thing that hides under children’s beds?” Hill asked.

“I knew him as a kid. He knows my father better than I do, so I’m inclined to trust him. He has ears in the right places. And the wrong ones.”

Fury beckoned him towards the meeting table with a heavy sigh, but glared when Tony tried to follow them.

“Did you receive an invitation, Stark?”

“Did he just say ‘father’? I’m just guessing, but since he looks an awful lot like Loki I’m going to assume that isn’t a coincidence-“

“Stark, why are you still here?”

“I just want to hear him out. He’s Loki’s son, do you realise what an opportunity he is-?”

“Yes, I realise,” Fury snarled, voice dropping low as he leant in close to the inventor. Over his shoulder, Tony could see the red-head glancing at them, brows furrowed. “I just don’t want you messing this up. You have a bad habit of making bad situations worse.”

“It’s a talent of mine,” Tony sneered, but was interrupted by Jörmungandr tapping Fury repetitively on the shoulder. It was kind of cute, the way he hesitated before using only the tips of his finger and the lightest of touches to draw Fury’s attention. It worked as well as if Tony had written Fury’s name in the sky, which showed precisely where the shift of power was. Jörmungandr seemed very much aware of it.

“He can stay.” It was more of an order than a request. “He’s interesting.” He grabbed Tony’s shoulder and yanked him in. Tony was helpless but to allow it, and the ginger sat down close to him at the table, leaning far into Tony’s personal bubble and asking him questions about Iron Man. For a monster from Norse horror stories, he seemed surprisingly well-informed.

Fury let them be, going back to his morning business when he realised Jörmungandr had been utterly distracted, and Tony took the time to study the god. He was still dishearteningly similar to Loki, even up close, but the face full of freckles made him seem that bit softer.

His attitude and humour was certainly distinct from Loki’s, though Tony had only ever experienced the _world domination_ flavour of Loki’s persona. It didn’t seem possible the man who had destroyed New York could have such an inquisitive son who was so easily delighted at even the littlest of things. Tony found himself half-way through explaining the bare basics of repulsor technology, with Jörmungandr sitting there in awe (though not understanding a word of it), when they were both thrown by the sudden and dramatic entrance of Thor. Tony honestly hadn’t noticed the time as it slipped away, nor that the sun was now completely risen until he noticed how Thor was majestically bathed in the morning light.

The God of Thunder was joined by a man broader and taller than even he was, and Tony couldn’t help his stare since he had never imagined such a thing possible. He noticed that this newcomer was also lacking footwear, as Jörmungandr was.

“Did you get him?” The red-head asked the impossibly large man, who only frowned and shook his head.

“He was gone by the time I arrived. I only found Thor and Jack.”

“What was he even doing down there?” Tony could only assume they were talking about Loki.

“An excellent question.” Thor said sullenly, apparently not completely sure himself, sitting down heavily in the seat to Tony’s left. Meanwhile, the tall stranger placed himself on Jörmungandr’s free side, whilst Fury stood on the opposite side of the table, staring them all down seriously.

Jörmungandr’s posture shifted as soon as the newcomer settled, and he altered himself so he was now leaning in the opposite direction. Tony felt it was time for introductions.

“Tony Stark,” he announced, reaching his hand across Jörmungandr towards the unimpressed looking man.

“This is my brother, Fenrir,” the red-head said before the man had chance to talk for himself. “Where’s Hel?”

“She received a distress call from her realm. Some of her wards have been breached.”

Well, this was starting to get disturbing. Tony had done his homework after the whole Battle of New York fiasco and with it he had brushed up on his Norse myths and legends. He was willing to accept the abstract existence of Loki’s monstrous children, but largely he had taken to dismissing it. There had been no evidence to back it up, after all. Yet, here he was, sitting next to the serpent and the wolf, who were discussing the queen of the underworld, their sister. Tony had to give himself a moment.

“So, I take it Loki got away,” he addressed Thor, someone who was just that bit easier to deal with. Tony had adjusted to him surprisingly well, but then Thor was one of those blokes who wasn’t hard to get used to. He seemed to just fit in wherever he went, despite his size and Asgardian personality.

“My brother is sly,” Thor nodded, but he sounded saddened. “Also, I fear, unstable.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Tony patted his shoulder, seeing the misery on his teammate’s face. “What’s he done this time?”

Then, suddenly, everything clicked.

“Oh. It’s Loki isn’t it? With the children and the disease. The fucking psychopath. Why aren’t we assembling the Avengers? We’ll take him down like we did last time-“

“Stark,” Fury snapped warningly, and through his spike of rage, Tony remembered who else was in the room with them. He glanced a peek towards the Lokisons, only to find them watching him with no great surprise on their faces.

Thankfully no malice, either.

“Okay, so what is _actually_ happening?” He said, temper at an end as everyone settled and the truth had come to light.

There was silence for a while, until all eyes settled on Thor. Poor, melancholy Thor, who looked like he’d prefer to have another round falling through the sky in the Hulk cage than face this conversation.

“The children have had their souls stolen by a powerful piece of magic known as the soul gem.”

“We know,” Jörmungandr answered, though he could only speak for himself and his brother. He said, “We’re not idiots,” when Thor send them a surprised look. “Hel assures us there is little to nothing so strong in the universe.”

“And what did Loki have to say for himself?” Fury wondered, and once again Thor was subjected to every eye of the company. His shoulders drooped and he shook his head, before glancing to his nephews and squaring himself up again. He looked at them directly, solemnly, before saying: “Your father is mad.”

Fenrir and Jörmungandr shared a look, before the red-haired clone of Loki started cackling whilst Fenrir’s deformed lip hitched with a smile.

“Again,” Jörmungandr said. “We know. We may not have seen him, but we have heard tales.”

“Hel confronted him,” Fenrir told them with his gravelly, accented voice. “As did our other brother, Jackson. Jackson was injured in the attempt.”

“He hurt Jackson?” Thor gaped, and Jörmungandr shrugged.

“Does that surprise you?”

Thor had obviously expecting something different if his slack expression could be served as a judge. However, further questioning was ground to a halt when alerts simultaneously signalled from several of the computers down in the control room. Hill was at Fury’s side in an instant, report in tow, frowning as she enlightened them all to the situation. There seemed to be a blizzard appearing in the lower levels, skimming past the infirmary where there were too many children lying in hospital beds with their haunting blue eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

Tony only raised his eyebrows at the news of the indoor snowstorm – it was hard to surprise an Avenger, especially in these recent times – whereas the Lokisons smiled.

“You know what this is.” Fury accused, and Jörmungandr nodded.

“A formidable foe,” He promised, chuckling darkly, mockingly, but Thor stopped the serpent’s spiel spiralling into something worrying when he informed them all that it was ‘Jack Frost’. SHIELD had been visited by the spirit before.

“Initiate the See-All.” Hill barked before Fury had even opened his mouth, and several agents scrambled to follow her order. A screen by Fury’s shoulder flickered to life and a jittery picture from the surveillance cameras captured the storm as it blew a determined path through the helicarrier. Tony watched it avidly, fascinated by the faint outline of a person caught in the heart of the ice, nothing more than a child, but a boy that was obviously in control of the freak weather.

“Is that-?” Thor asked, dazzled at the sight, whilst Jörmungandr sat back in his chair, pouting.

“That’s no fun.” He said. “Now everyone can see him.”

“You can?” Thor turned to the ginger, and he shrugged noncommittally.

“Yeah. Hel did some hocus pocus and _poof_ , there he was.”

“How?” Thor’s tone was demanding, and Jörmungandr narrowed his eyes at him.

“Why?” He asked lowly, dangerously, and suddenly Tony could see Loki’s likeness in more than just the serpent’s face. Likewise, over his shoulder, Fenrir was starting to stand, sensing something more in Thor’s tone than what Tony had assumed was an eagerness to explore the unknown. Suddenly, Fenrir laughed.

“He thinks he can reconnect long-lost Jackson with our father using the same trick that revealed our brother to us.” Jörmungandr was grinning now too, teeth pointed, but his eyes were furious. “’Tis not a wise course of action, Odinson,” Fenrir continued. “Since Loki would sooner destroy his own child than speak to him.”

“Wait, what?” Tony interrupted, turning all glares to him as he raised an inquiring finger. “Jack Frost is a Lokison, too?”

“Of course he is. How else could he so masterfully manipulate the ice?” Fenrir spat, as if questioning Tony’s intelligence. Tony frowned, not liking the feeling.

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

“Why aren’t we stopping him?” Fury looked especially to Thor, the big, noble Avenger who had usually jumped into action to save the day by now. Thor shook his head.

“My nephew is no threat. Likely he will find his way here, and we can further discuss my brother.”

“With his three dangerous sons?” Tony scoffed, and in the seat next to him Jörmungandr winked.

“I’m only dangerous if you rile me up.” Tony tried to restrain his tongue at the red-head’s sultry tone of voice. It would only piss several powerful people off if he rose to the bait.

“They’re fighting their father,” Thor announced pointedly, bringing the mood back to serious, and the brothers nodded stiffly.

“He has dismissed us,” Fenrir answered when Fury asked why. “He believes we serve no further purpose.”

“Useless,” Thor said suddenly, as if just remembering something, and the Lokisons glared.

“Thanks,” Stated Jörmungandr sardonically. “That made me feel better.”

“No, you misunderstand! Your father repeated the word several times whilst we spoke. I know not what he meant, but it sounded much unlike him.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Tony pointed out, at the exact same time Fury snapped, “That’s exactly what he sounds like.” Thor glowered at both of them, and eventually Fury conceded.

“Okay, I’ll bite. _Why_ are they useless?”

“No magic.” Jörmungandr announced, and Fenrir nodded. “No magic means no transformations, which means we’re not the powerful doomsday monsters that he needs us to be.” They looked between each other for a moment, before shaking their heads. “We’re not sure why Jack or Hel were dismissed, considering they’re both in full possession of all their powers.”

“What about the other children?” Fury asked, referring to the poor kids who had been destroyed by the attack, their souls stolen and their bodies left empty. “Are they useless too?”

But no one had a clear answer.  Eventually, after a few tense seconds of contemplation, Jörmungandr snorted. “They are _now_.”

“What are they using the souls for?” Tony asked, whilst Fury glared at the manic red-head.  “I mean what can they be used for at all? They’re just-” The scientist faltered. “I don’t even know what souls are.”

Thor said, “They’re energy. The soul gem feeds on them.”

“O-kay.” Tony scrunched up his face, feeling a shiver travel down his spine. “So, what does the soul gem do?”

“It can control any soul it possesses, be they living or dead.”

“Well, that suddenly got ten times more creepy.” Tony confessed his discomfort. “Right, so Loki failed to take over the world with the tesseract, so he tries to soul gem.”

“It is risky,” Thor explained, looking sullen and confused. “My brother always had great interest in the infinity gems, but was scared of the soul gem.”

“Your brother has changed.” Fury reminded him. They had all been subjected to the many tales of Thor and Loki’s great exploits and adventures from when they were young, and not a single one of them correlated to the man Loki was now. The Avengers had tried to tell Thor repeatedly, but oftentimes it seemed to bounce off the nostalgic blond.

“It’s not Loki,” Thor then stated, as if that was the end to it. “At least, not the Loki I spoke with today. He claimed he had nothing to do with it.”

“And we’re believing him?” Everyone at the table, even Loki’s own children, seemed unimpressed at Thor’s show of good faith.

“I think he was trying to tell me something. It was unclear _what_ , precisely, but it involved the infinity gems. He believes there is a shard of one in a grave he was trying to dig up-“

“Sir, the spirit is approaching.” Hill interrupted, and Tony looked to the screen, only to hide himself with his arms when a sharp gust of arctic wind slammed open the doors and invaded the meeting.

“Jackson,” Fenrir snapped warningly, whilst Jörmungandr laughed delightedly. Off to the side, the humans were trying to recover, but the gods had stood and were happily walking around with bare feet in the blistering cold.

“I wish to see him,” Thor said, but Jörmungandr only shrugged insincerely.

“Too bad. I don’t have any seiðr, and even if I did I don’t know what spell Hel used.”

“Please,” Thor implored, and the brothers both sized him up. On the opposite side of the table, Fury and Hill were trying to analyse the readings of the spirit (Jack Frost. Tony could hardly belief his own life, sometimes), whilst Tony himself sat and shivered moodily, bitching to himself about the temperature.

“How did you do it?” Thor asked, to which Fenrir briefly explained the giving of beads. Thor had no beads, but did have a bracelet of great sentimental value to him. Fenrir scoffed.

“It won’t work. The magic needs a blood-link, and you are not related to my father in anything more than words.”

Thor suddenly produced another trinket from around his neck, a hammer made of bone. “Loki made this for me. He did not remember it when I tried to show him, and he dropped it in the snow. Nevertheless, once upon a time, this meant a great deal to the both of us.”

Fenrir and Jörmungandr had a brief and silent conversation between them, before the serpent shrugged and looked over to where Fury was standing, cursing the chill.

“Worth a shot. How about it, Jack?”

“The necklace,” Fenrir asked, holding out his hand towards thin air, and Tony groaned when he saw a string of beads materialise out of nowhere.

“Magic,” he cursed to himself. Meanwhile, Fenrir was unstringing the bone hammer from Thor’s necklace and placing it upon the new strip of leather.

“How about asking Jack goddamn Frost to turn down the indoor weather,” Tony griped, knowing he wasn’t alone when Fury and Hill grumbled in agreement. It wasn’t immediate, but he did start to notice some warmth piercing the air. At the same time, Jörmungandr jumped on the table happily. He held the necklace out blindly, and then smiled when it disappeared again.

It was as if a vision came upon Thor, and he blinked in the direction the snake was looking. Fenrir’s eyes were also trained in the same place, and Tony realised that the bone hammer had successfully worked to unmask Jack Frost to the God of Thunder.

Jörmungandr’s eyes narrowed and he prodded at thin air, or what Tony assumed had to be the spirit. “Don’t I know you?” He asked. “No, before Finland. Yes, you froze the sea! I was underneath that!”

Tony was suddenly by the red-head’s side, on top of the meeting table, fingers reaching for nothing. The serpent frowned at him for a moment, before taking his hand and slowly drawing it into the right direction. After a moment, the god stopped the motion, and Tony felt…

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He huffed out a disappointed breath, and received a sudden cold chill right down the back of his t-shirt. “Hey!”

Jörmungandr and Fenrir were laughing again, this time at Tony’s expense, whilst Fury barked at them all to get their feet off his goddamn furniture. Thor was following the unseen Jack Frost with his eyes, amazed, smiling faintly.

“You look fine, Jack,” he said, sounding relieved. “I had heard you were attacked.”

“Can we not do this?” Fury asked, waving a hand. “This whole one-sided conversation the puny, pathetic mortals can’t hear thing. If you want our help, we want to know what you know. _Everything_ you know. You were talking about Loki, Thor.”

This seemed to grab Jack Frost’s attention, as the temperature of the room suddenly plummeted. Tony protested out loud.

“The graves.” Hill prompted, reminding the god where he was in his story.

“He was digging at them.” Thor informed them. “As I said, he believes there’s an infinity gem inside one of them.” He looked up to the air, hearing something Tony couldn’t, to where Jack Frost was likely talking. He shook his head. “I do not know who they are, but he says they are his family. Perhaps they were related to you, since you lived in that town once.”

“What would the gems be doing in a grave?” Jörmungandr asked, and Thor nodded in agreement.

“It is why I said that he only _thinks_ this is true. Only earlier today was the Infinity Gauntlet, with all the gems in it, taken from my father’s weapons vault. There is no possibility that he had time to bury it, and nor would it make sense for him to exhume it again if he had.” He rubbed his head. “He said they were only shards, but that is impossible. The gems are unbreakable.”

“No,” Fenrir suddenly cut in, startling the individuals around him. “That is false. I learnt this from Týr.” He smirked bitterly. “He spoke to me often of his adventures, of his freedom, whilst I was trapped in the cave. He said once that he had learnt that all are told that the gems are unbreakable, so that they aren’t broken. Their power is reduced to essentially nothing when they are.”

Thor growled. “You are calling Odin All-Father a liar?”

“Yes.” Fenrir nodded. “And I believe he would certainly tell his sons such lies, if it meant the protection of his weapons. The gems, without the whole, are little more than pretty trinkets.”

“If Loki shattered them, then he must have known the truth.”

“Why would he break them if they are so powerful?”

“He wished to teach my father a lesson,” Thor stated. “But perhaps it is something more sinister. Without the other gems, there is nothing that can stop the soul gem.”

“On the bright side,” Jörmungandr inserted. “He hasn’t got the gems combined.”

“Unfortunately, he knows where they are.” Fenrir reminded him.

Fury theorised, “Perhaps in a fit of madness he broke them and then later changed his mind?”

“It would take effort to break the gems.” Fenrir answered. “Furthermore, if he did not have time to break and hide them today, when _did_ he do it?”

Thor thought back into Loki’s recent history, but there was no memory of Loki and the subject of the infinity gems that popped immediately into mind. Instead, he was struck by an argument that went further back than Thor had previously thought he could even recall. They had been but boys at the time, and Loki had only just started his family with Angrboða.

“That isn’t possible,” He informed all those who was listening. “Loki could not have-“ But Loki _could_ have. Loki was famed for being the only one who knew his way in and out of any part of Asgard undetected, the weapons vault included, and therefore it wasn’t unlikely that, if he wished to break the infinity gems to get back at their father for disregarding his advice to keep them separate, then he would have done so.

“He can’t get his hands on them.” Fury then said, when Thor did not continue. They all knew that the god’s silence meant. “No matter what, I don’t want him getting his magic hands on even more power. If this is the damage he can do with one of those gems, I want it to stop right now.”

“He says this is not his doing,” Thor said again. “I am inclined to believe him.”

“He’s the God of _Lies_ , Thor,” Tony said, again finding it necessary to remind the world of such, but the blond ignored him.

“He is not in his right mind. Even if he is a part of it, he does not know it. I _do_ believe that he is involved deeper than he believes he is, but I also think he isn’t aware of such.”

Fury then demanded, “Can you try and track him down? He knows more than he’s telling you, no matter how much you think he’s out of his mind.”

A SHIELD agent suddenly crashed to the floor as they passed by, losing his footing on a dangerous slip of ice. Jack Frost clearly wanted their attention. The agent in question was quickly helped up by Hill and was looking fretfully at the computer screen he’d smashed. Fury growled at some air, hoping the spirit was somewhere in the vicinity.

“He says something drew Loki to Burgess,” Fenrir kindly informed those who could not perceive the boy. Hill confirmed this, looking up from a computer.

“There have been two anomalous energy ratings in Finland and North America, but not in any of the other locations. If Loki is looking for shards, and he believes one is in Pennsylvania, then perhaps another is in Finland.”

“Dig up those graves and see what you can find,” Fury ordered, before frowning. “What about the other areas? Why were they targeted?”

“New Mexico may have been an entryway and nothing more,” Thor answered, considering that was where he had been sent when he had come to Earth the first time. “The others…” he paused, looking to Jack Frost who seemed to have the answer.

“They are the hometowns of the Guardians.” Fenrir eventually said, which meant nothing to the assembled humans. “They are spirits which watch over children, and Jack is one of them. There are the Sandman, the Easter Bunny, the Toothfairy and-“

“Santa!” Jörmungandr exclaimed, grinning towards his invisible brother.

“Are you serious?” Tony said, unimpressed, and received a sharp sting of ice for his troubles. “Ow! What the hell?”

“They were probably distractions for the Guardians,” Fenrir concluded, huffing at the interruption. “They have a great deal of power and may have hindered the plan.”

“Unfortunately for them, Burgess is Jack’s hometown and I was already in Finland.”

This gained attention from Fury, who rounded on Jörmungandr in seconds.

“Speaking of which, I still don’t buy that it was a coincidence you were there. I wouldn’t be surprised if this has something to do with you.”

The serpent shrugged, smiled. “Trust me, don’t trust me, I don’t care. All I can say is that the Norns work in funny ways.”

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Fury said, putting a hand to his forehead and taking a breath. “Your demented brother,” he said, pointing at Thor. “Is looking for shards of gems he tried to destroy years ago, but now wants back. Furthermore, he is the only one who knows where these shards are, and we only have one lead. If Loki gets his hands on these gems, he’ll connect them all back together with this infinity gauntlet and bring about the end of the world?”

“Oh, and Odin is moving against him!” Jörmungandr chirped. “That’s my news! Pitch Black told us that a Vanr who was in our custody escaped and found his way back to Asgard. Odin thinks we’re involved, and he wants to stop us from starting Ragnarök.”

Thor shook his head, knowing that much. “I no longer know Loki’s long-term plan.” He admitted. “He was furious when I accused this of being Ragnarök, and I must admit that I too have always had my doubts.”

“Is it not Ragnarök?”

“Of course it is not!” Fenrir said, elbowing his brother when he tried to protest. “We are not helping him, therefore the prophecies cannot be true.”

“Actually, yeah, why didn’t he go looking for assistance?” Tony asked, brain caught on something niggling. “I thought that he would have gone to you two if he was looking for revenge or whatever.”

“Ma-gic.” Jörmungandr said slowly as if he were stupid, waving his hands and twiddling his fingers in Tony’s face. “We have none. We are useless.” The inventor batted him away.

“I believe he is convinced no one will help him.” Thor interrupted, his face forlorn. “He seemed lost. Mad.”

“The fact he’s insane is only further evidence in my book that he is the one behind this.” Fury snapped. “And it reinforces the fact we need to find these gems before he does. I don’t care whether he thinks he’s innocent, or whether he’s starting the apocalypse, but the last thing I need is Loki Laufeyson with a handful of super-charged power-gems, you got that?”

At Tony’s side, Jörmungandr leaned over to his brother. He whispered, “Laufey?”

Fenrir answered, “King of the Frost Giants.” Jörmungandr’s eyes widened, and he laughed. “No fucking way.”

“If you would.” Fury glared, and the brothers looked back to the one-eyed man. “You two take your brother,” He glared at the invisible Jack Frost. “And go to Finland. Check to see that there’s not something you’ve missed. You come straight back here, do you understand me? You tell me everything you find. Thor, I would be happier if Asgard wasn’t-”

The god stood from his seat, mouth a thin line of resolve. “I will try to convince my father that Jörmungandr, Fenrir and Hel are not involved and that we have the situation under control.”

“Much obliged.” The serpent patted his uncle on the shoulder companionably before winking in Iron Man’s direction. “See you later, Tony. Come on, mousebird.” He and Fenrir left, the cold following after them, but not without the spirit leaving a last burst of cold air that caused several agents to fall over or slide away from their stations as ice formed on the metal floor. Tony himself had to cling to the edge of the table to make sure the same didn’t happen to him.

“God damn aliens,” Fury muttered to himself as the doors slid behind them, and Tony was inclined, for once, to agree. At the same time, he felt utterly captivated by the scientific possibilities and discoveries magic and these crazy, ridiculous creatures threw up into the air. They continuously screwed over everything he believed and knew to be true, and if that didn’t make him completely ecstatic then Tony wasn’t fit to call himself a pioneer of science.

“You,” Fury then rounded on him, killing Tony’s good mood in one fell swoop. “I need you and Dr. Banner to do some research.”

“On what? These gem things?”

“Yes. And this.” He showed Tony the screen which had all the readings they had gathered on Jack Frost. Further, when he was in the room, it also picked up some strange readings on Jörmungandr and Fenrir too. They were as cold as the spirit for one thing, their heat signatures completely black, though considering they were related this wasn’t news. Furthermore, however, they were both bathed with colours which Tony recognised from the strange readings they had gotten off Loki during the brief spat he was with them in the Hulk cage.

“Magic-less, my ass,” Tony said, before he spotted something else. It was clear that Fury and Hill had seen it too. “What _is_ that?”

It was a small, seemingly inconsequential reading which was coming from only Jörmungandr. Fury called up another screen, and Tony realised what it meant.

“That,” Fury deigned to explain. “Is the same magical signature which we have found in both Finland and Burgess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, these guys sure can talk.  
> OH MY GOD GUYS YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH OF THIS STORY WE HAVE LEFT .


	27. In the Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, what? Update?

Jack loved Finland. It was just one of those places which, over the years, he’d discovered suited him. Most likely it was the climate, where there was snow everywhere and anywhere and Jack didn’t need to exert his influence on the environment. He had the space and the time to play, to manipulate the cold and the snow and the ice, and the people here were hardened to it. They played along, instead of grumbling into their furry coats.

Now, he was soaring above the trees, the frozen winds dancing around him, directing him back to the town where Jörmungandr had been living. They were looking for a shard of a power gem Loki had reportedly hidden, or, for preference, Loki himself. He had a bit of explaining to do.

A part of Jack was still in Burgess, worrying, fretting. How couldn’t it be? The town had been essentially wiped out, the people taken away for safe-keeping, or medical attention, or just because there was nothing left. And now SHIELD were exhuming the graves of people that might or might not be related to him. Jack’s felt uneasy to think of it, his mind rebelling by not thinking about it and his gut churning if he did, for it was entirely possible that it was his mother that was buried in one of those graves. Whoever they were, they had obviously been protected by magic before Loki tore down the barriers, and the most likely candidate was that it was Loki himself who built them up in the first place.

That part of Jack, which was anxious and terrified for what SHIELD was going to find rotting in the earth, wanted nothing more than to turn his tail and fly back to America, where it was comfortably cool this winter, though nothing as invigorating as the deep-set chill which permeated the Finnish air. But what kept him grounded, what stopped him from panicking and jolting in the opposite direction, was the gleeful sounds of two people trying to keep up with him; both ancient predators, high from the chase.

Fenrir should have been in the lead, with longer legs and more powerful muscles, but Jörmungandr was endowed with a particular grace and slyness, which had him both darting through the trees easily, whilst trying to trip his brother up at every turn. Fenrir had scratches on his face from where Jörmungandr had led him head-first into a low-hanging branch, more than once.

Jack watched them for a few minutes, allowing his pace to slow so his brothers – and that was weird to think, he’d never had brothers before – were under the illusion that they may be able to keep up. After the Midgard serpent got a foot under Fenrir’s, sending the large man sprawling to the ground whilst the younger of the two sprinted off into the forest, cackling maniacally, Jack decided to step in.

“You need some help, big guy?”

Fenrir narrowed his eyes, pointing distrustfully at Jack’s nose as he clambered up. “Not from you.” He said, already knowing Jack far too well. Not that the Guardian tried to disguise his charming personality. He grinned.

“Do you trust me?” He asked, holding out a hand.

“About as much as I trust that sentence.” Fenrir admitted, frowning severely at the upturned palm.

From out of the branches, a voice surprised them both. “That means ‘no’, Jack.” Jörmungandr was watching them from the highest branches he could reach, swinging a leg down to observe the two conspiring against him. “I’m hurt, Jackie, I really am.”

“Run out of birds already, Jör?” Jack returned with a cheeky smile.

“You know, it’s funny, but you don’t see so many of those in the depths of the ocean. Forgive me for not taking the time to learn their names.” The serpent jumped down from his branch and landed awkwardly. He clutched on to his brother’s arm as he swayed, before glaring at his feet.

“What is even the point in limbs?” He snarled, whilst Fenrir barked out a laugh, shoving the smaller man from him. Jörmungandr was sent to the floor at the antagonistic display of strength, shouting out in protest.

Jack asked again, wrapping his hand around Fenrir’s wrist, “Do you trust me?”

“No.” Fenrir certainly had a way with words, and it showed in the amount of hostility he stuffed in a single word, but it deterred Jack exactly zero percent. He called for the wind whilst both his brothers protested. Jörmungandr called out to them for cheating, whilst Fenrir yelled in surprise as soon as sharp, icy gusts shot him up from the ground.

“You are not strong enough!” He insisted as they broke through the canopy, not even trying to hide the way he clung onto the hand Jack held him by, as if this would secure Jack’s grip. Jack had already proved, however, that with his trusty wind’s help he could carry Fenrir without breaking a sweat.

“You look most unnatural, brother!” Jörmungandr howled up at his elder sibling, head peeking out through the bare branches as he travelled from tree-top to tree top, laughing up at them both. “You lack a bird’s grace!”

Fenrir was trying not to look down, but with Jörmungandr’s goading he couldn’t help it. He immediately started to thrash in Jack’s grip, kicking out at nothing as if this would help him find some stability when, in all actually, it was throwing Jack’s balance.

“Fenrir, calm down,” he said, feeling his stomach drop when they suddenly tumbled in a freefall. He only just managed to catch them, Fenrir’s feet brushing over the top of the trees, even as he was still screeching from their fall.

Jack felt himself stable enough to bring his brother back up, and he found himself grinning at the rush of fear which had pierced through him at the sudden drop. He did stupid things like that all the time when he was on his own, but it had been a long time since he’d actually been _scared_. He almost laughed, feeling the fear turn to thrill.

 _Almost_ being the key term, since as soon as he was ready to torment his older brother even more and drag them both back up into the emptiness of the winter air, they were suddenly jolted down again as Jörmungandr latched on to his brother’s leg.

“Jörmungandr!” Fenrir screamed, terror morphing his expression into hilarity, or at least Jack thought so, whilst the snake’s own face was determined to clamber up and latch on to the wolf’s neck. Every move he made encouraged Fenrir’s fear, and the combination of the struggle and the weight made Jack’s fingers slip.

“No, no!” He exclaimed when Fenrir dropped from his grasp, Jörmungandr along with him. Fenrir did not realise what had happened until he was watching himself fall away from Jack down into the trees, and his eyes widened comically.

Jack followed the commotion down to the floor, trailing the noises of breaking branches and angry swearing in a rich variety of languages before the silence had him picking up speed and darting through the forest to find his brothers.

“Hey, are you alright?” He asked, feeling worry permeate his humour as he found Fenrir lying face-first in the dirt, unmoving, potentially seriously hurt. Jack looked up to the trees, seeing the damage Fenrir’s bulk had done to the flora as he had fallen, taking down more than just a few twigs with him. It seemed as if several entire trees had been felled, and Jack knew from experience that landing on even one branch hurt.

He stepped a little closer to his brother, feeling guilt and panic start to build in the back of his head, but just as the thought that Jack’d killed him started to ooze through into the spirit’s head, the great wolf began to stir. He groaned mightily, whilst Jack let out a sigh of relief.

“You scared me!” he exclaimed as Fenrir pulled himself up on shaking arms. The man managed to lift himself enough to flip his body over onto his back, before reverting all his energy into glaring Jack down.

“’Trust me’, you said,” Fenrir spat, and Jack could only shrug.

“Don’t blame _me_. It’s Jörmungandr’s fault-“ He stopped, only to look around, trying to spot the red-head. He caught movement in his periphery vision – Fenrir pointing upwards – and Jack followed the track of the outstretched finger to discover his second sibling sprawled across a tree-top to their left.

Jack and Jörmungandr shared a strange look, in which the serpent looked more dazed than upset, before the madman started to cackle, perched high up in his treetop, looking down at his brothers from afar. They all looked a sight.

Jack laughed with him, whilst Fenrir caught his breath and tried to calm his pounding heart. He managed a faint smile, a bewildered shaking of his head, a begrudging acceptance that this was his life now and these were the people he was stuck with, before closing his eyes and laying his head back in exhaustion.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he warned Jack ominously, and whilst Jack outwardly agreed, plots were already being hatched in his mischievous mind about their next abrupt flying lesson.

“Where are we?”

“Are we close?” Jack asked.

Jörmungandr shook his head at both of them, not bothering to move from where he had found himself. “We’ve got a little while yet. Maybe we should have said _yes_ to that jet.”

“No more flying.” Fenrir growled, which put a stop to that before it had even started.

“No more flying.” Jörmungandr agreed, whilst Jack floated up to his level to help him down. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the snake collapsed beside his brother, looking up to the damage Fenrir had done in his fall. He whistled lowly, appreciative. “No more falling, either.”

“So, erm,” Jack asked, perching on Fenrir’s chest, flitting up into the air just to settle back down as soon as the man’s hand dropped from trying to bat him off. “What are we even looking for here?”

Jörmungandr shrugged. “Whatever. Something strange. Our dear Nicholas thinks that a shard would be there, but if it was then it won’t be anymore.”

“Why? Perhaps Loki buried it here, too.”

The older brothers looked to each other briefly, before Fenrir shook his head and said, “Unlikely. Whilst I know not of our father’s exploits over the years, it seems like a trick he would not play twice. Likely there is something more to the people buried with the shard, if it is even there at all.”

Jack sighed, feeling the conversation come to a dead-end. “So we’re essentially going in blind, looking for something that is not even there?”

The Lokisons nodded.

“Okay, so what does the shard even look like?”

This made the two of them pause, and Jörmungandr’s brows scrunched together.

“Huh.” He eventually managed, having not before considered it. “I have an image of the gems in my head, an interpretation from the stories father used to tell to scare us, but I have not seen them before.”

Fenrir’s answer was similar. “Týr would speak of them, but I have not laid eyes upon them, either. They would not allow me near the weapon’s vault, obviously.”

Jack started tracing frost patterns over Fenrir’s thin cotton tunic, his motions absent and Fenrir not moving to stop him. He did that when he was distracted or thinking, and didn’t notice it until he saw Jörmungandr raise a finger to follow one. “Well, what do you know about them?” He finally said.

“There are six gems, each of a different colour. They all have markedly separate powers, but when drawn together with the infinity gauntlet they would prove to be undefeatable. Individually they are extraordinarily powerful, but they are not indestructible.”

“So what colour are we looking for?”

The brothers shrugged again. “It could prove to be any of the six. What with it potentially being a shard, we cannot be sure how that may have affected it. More-so-over, since neither of us has ever observed the gems we cannot be certain how true the tales are. In all actuality, we could be looking for anything.”

“That’s encouraging,” Jack sighed.

“Yep.” Jörmungandr hopped up, and the spirit flew up into the air in time with him, until they were both staring down at a wolf who was giving them both the stink-eye. “The miles aren’t going to walk themselves, bror.”

After hoisting a very grumpy 6”7 man from his miserable crater in the ground, they set off again.

\--

Considering they were all supernatural creatures out of myth and legend, perhaps it shouldn’t have taken them as long as it had done to get to the empty town. An average human couldn’t have beaten them there, true, but a SHIELD jet was already waiting for them when they strolled into town, as if expecting them to already be in need of a ride back to the helicarrier.

Fenrir was left to deal with them (and shout at them, just a little, about the dangers of flying) as Jörmungandr got distracted by showing Jack around.

“We skated on that lake!” he exclaimed, pulling his brother round corners and pointing every which way, grinning ridiculously. Jack realised, as the red-head pointed out various landscapes and features of the little village, that he had been here before, years ago. It wasn’t a surprise – as the spirit of winter, he found himself in the northern countries more often than not, and in three-hundred years he didn’t think he’d ever missed a town. He felt the same grief of watching Burgess fall under chaos now, looking through Jörmungandr’s empty town.

The serpent faltered when they were half-way down a street, staring up at a building labelled ‘hotel’. He looked down an ally, he glared at a restaurant, he stopped talking, stopped moving, stopped dead.

Jack didn’t know what to do. He could see agony writ about the man’s features, and it was such a stark contrast from the creature who had played a game carelessly in a forest, who jumped up at any mention of mischief, who was only minutes ago so excited to show Jack around. Now he looked like he was standing in a nightmare come to life.

“Brother,” Fenrir suddenly said, sliding his arm around Jörmungandr’s thin shoulder and letting the smaller man rest his head against his sibling’s chest. Jack hovered around them nervously, pretending to not see the tear that stained Jörmungandr’s cheek. He started to tell his own story, of the snowball war he’d started the last time he’d been here before the children had been taken. He remembered suddenly that a child had died here.

Whatever had actually happened, it still tore at Jörmungandr. He ended up shaking his head, blinking as if surprised to find himself suddenly curled up against Fenrir, before pushing away and pointing out any likely hiding places. There were not many on that list.

“I don’t feel anything, like a seiðr signature,” he then said with a shrug and a forced smile. His brothers did him the honour of acting as if they hadn’t watched him briefly shatter. “There’s no magical interference in the air, but then I didn’t feel any last time and SHIELD still says there was some. We need Hel here, as I fear I’m useless.”

Fenrir shook his head, but sighed. “I feel nothing, either. Perhaps it is an effect of being stripped of our magic.”

They both looked to Jack then, the only one of the trio endowed with powers, but he held his hands up and shook his head. “My magic isn’t really _mine_. I’m essentially a human beneath what I was given after I died. I can’t sense magic at all.”

“So, we’re stuck?”

“We could try using our eyes.” Jörmungandr suggested. “I don’t know about you, but I was gifted with two of them.”

Fenrir sighed, but with no other option he had to agree. “Where to first?”

Jörmungandr led the way, pointing them all in the direction of the oldest structure in town, which was a graveyard. “I know you said father wouldn’t do it again, but it doesn’t hurt to check.”

“We can’t just go digging up people,” Jack argued, and Fenrir nodded.

“That’d take too long.” Jack rather felt that he’d missed the point.

Jörmungandr tutted, as if all the fun had just been sapped from his plan. “Well, there’ll be something. Loki wouldn’t leave it unprotected, after all.”

When they arrived Jack flew straight over the gates, not waiting for Fenrir to smash the lock or Jörmungandr clamber hazardously over the pointed fence. He used the bird’s eye view as an advantage, briefly looking over each grave in hopes that something would seem unusual at first glance. It wasn’t a stretch that if Loki had already been here, he would have desecrated the grave they were looking for. As it were, nothing seemed out of place.

He met Fenrir in the middle, standing by the biggest monument, and Jack crouched on the statue’s outstretched arm. As soon as his feet touched down, he felt himself wobble precariously, his leg slipping on its own accord from where he had instructed it to go, and he could help but let loose a yelp as he almost toppled from the tall grave.

When he managed to right himself, Fenrir was looking up at him with a deadly raised eyebrow. Jack managed a self-deprecating smile. “You see now? It’s dangerous, Jackson.”

“I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand, though this wasn’t the first time it had happened and Jack was starting to get a little freaked out. He knew he needed to talk to someone about it, about the fact his body was rebelling against him, and the first person who jumped to mind was North. The second, strangely, was Hel. North was someone Jack associated with comfort, he realised, whereas Hel was a sorceress. She might be able to fix whatever was wrong with him, and he had a sneaking idea what it might be.

For the moment, however, with his leg back under his own control, his balance secure and a mission to accomplish, he was going to remain in denial land.

From his vantage point he could see Jörmungandr agitatedly going from grave to grave, frowning when he, like Jack, found nothing.

“It all seems undisturbed,” the spirit reported, but this didn’t seem to mean much to Fenrir.

“Our father is a mage, Jackson. It is not impossible that he could cover his tracks.”

Jack shook his head, letting his leg swing as he cast his mind back to spotting the manic look in Loki’s eye when he was caught red-handed in Burgess. “You didn’t see him, Fenrir. He was digging at the soil with his bare hands.”

“He’d have a tough time doing that here.” Jörmungandr called out, stamping on the frozen soil. Despite the force he was putting behind his movements, his heels didn’t make so much as an indentation. “I suppose it depends what mindset he was in. Thor said he’s crazy now.”

“He seemed it.” Jack couldn’t help but agree. He remembered Loki from when he was a boy, and the man had been clever, put together, playful, occasionally terrifying. Now, he seemed only the latter. He was almost unrecognisable to the man in the winter spirit’s memories.

“We can’t track down a madman,” Fenrir growled, because people like that, their minds a jumble and nonsensical to anyone but themselves, did not leave any discernible pattern to follow.

Several stones away, Jörmungandr kicked at a gravestone. “This is going well so far.”

“We can’t give up.”Jack interrupted, his natural cheer pushing into his voice as he stood up and took to the sky. He hovered over Jörmungandr, who swiped a hand at him irately. “Where to next?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen Loki in thousands of years. I have no idea what he’s thinking. I’m judging locations only by age. This was an sacred site for ancient Pagans, whereas everywhere else is less than a thousand years old, even the foundations of the town. If he did hide something, it’s likely here.” But, of course, it was not.

“So, the forests?” Fenrir said, glancing back where they came. Jörmungandr pulled a face, disliking the magnitude of the task now yawning before them, before gesturing they follow him a different way.

He stopped at a clearing, marked by stones. Jack looked around for anything suspicious, and was stricken by a carving in a tree.

“That’s creepy.” He announced, prompting his siblings to look his way. “How old do you think _that_ is? Looks like a monster.”

“A few days.” Jörmungandr informed him, leaning over his shoulder to scratch at the bark. Jack immediately got excited.

“So this is it, right! I mean, who draws stuff like that? The town is empty, and we know Loki was here if he set off the soul gem-“

“I did it.”

“What?”

Jörmungandr pointed at the carving, of a grotesque face etched into the wood, and repeated himself: “I did it. I was upset and I needed my mother.”

“That’s your-“ Jack faltered a little, looking between the two men and then the carving on the tree, before seeing something of a resemblance in the fierce face and Fenrir’s frown. “Oh. Sorry.”

But neither of them took offence. As it were, Jörmungandr was focused on the tree, running his fingers over a marking made underneath the face. “What is that?” the serpent asked.

“That’s the magician’s symbol for ‘scoured’.” Fenrir answered, pulling his brother away to stare at it. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘to clean’.” Jörmungandr replied cheerily, ignoring his brother’s scowl.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“’To search’?” Jack offered, and Fenrir glared at him too.

“What I _meant_ , as I’m sure you’re both aware, is that if Jörmungandr did not put it there, then what is it doing on this tree?”

“Perhaps it was father. He would have recognised mother.” The serpent suggested, but Fenrir seemed unconvinced.

“He rarely does things without reason.”

“I’m more concerned with that,” The snake pointed at the writing below it; sharp runes, hastily carved into the bark.

Fenrir paused, whilst his brothers looked to him expectantly. Jack recognised the typeface from letters Loki used to throw in the fire, and Jörmungandr could clearly read it. Fenrir, it seemed, wasn’t quite as sure what to make of it.

“I don’t-“ he started, but stopped quickly, his expression uncomfortable. The red-head didn’t seem to understand, but Jack had seen that type of embarrassment before: when children were surrounded by peers, suddenly left out and feeling stupid because of it.

“You can’t read?” Jack extrapolated, and Fenrir snarled at him. Jörmungandr seemed taken aback.

“Father taught us-“

“That was a long time ago.” Fenrir snapped. “I don’t remember, and no one bothered to teach me. They thought I was a stupid animal. How can _you_ read?”

“I’ve been in and out of the water for centuries,” Jörmungandr admitted with some difficulty. “I find humans interesting. Anyway,” he distracted. “You can read abstract magical symbols but not words?”

“He sent me books,” Fenrir said, seemingly apropos of the conversation. “Father did, after I was sent away. Týr would read them to me, sometimes. He scratched the symbols into the stone. They were just useless things, of course, things I could never use in a spell. They weren’t about to pass over the tools I’d need to let myself loose. So, no, I can’t read writing. What does it say?”

“’Do not misunderstand me’.” Jörmungandr translated, shrugging, moving his attention from Fenrir before the atmosphere became too uncomfortable. He joked, “I don’t know how we’re supposed to misunderstand if we don’t understand.”

“Loki?”

“I cannot comprehend it.” Fenrir admitted, and neither could the other two males.

“Perhaps we should leave another message.” Jörmungandr suddenly grinned, crouching down and drawing a blade from the back of his trousers. “What shall we say? ‘Stop being a cryptic bastard’? ‘Speak Norwegian’?”

“Nothing so direct,” Fenrir smiled. “He’d be contradictory for the sake of it.”

“’Speak complex Asgardian that none of us could understand’,” Jörmungandr said sarcastically, starting to etch out a rune.

“What are you telling him?” Jack asked, landing on a branch above their heads. Fenrir, mind full of the last time Jack perched on something high which concluded in Jack almost falling straight from the sky, switched his expression to stern.

“Get down from there.” He ordered.

“You’re not my real dad.” Jack shot back, making Jörmungandr laugh in the face of Fenrir’s honest bafflement.

The serpent said, “How about this: ‘We’ve found them’. That might spur him into action.”

“Or raise his hostilities against us,” Fenrir told the snake. “Perhaps you’re forgetting he does not think favourably of us as of late.”

“Well, I don’t like him much either.”

“He’s _clever_ ,” Fenrir insisted. “He’ll see through such a ruse! We have nothing to go on. If he realises we are leading him on a false trail-“

“If he’s so clever then how come he didn’t find us? Hmm?” Jörmungandr suddenly asked, voice tight. He stood up and whirled to face the wolf, fists clenching. “I don’t just mean you or me, Fenrir, but Jackson too. We are the lost children, the tools to his apocalypse, and he abandoned us. That’s why we’re fighting him, because we’re still children, and we want his attention. _I_ want his attention. He’s going to end up killing me, and I don’t care. He has murdered my child, he has already destroyed me, and he hasn’t even _seen_ me since I was a child. I want to find him, and I want to _stop_ him. And if he sees this, _this’ll work_. It’s a goad, and even if he thinks we’re full of shit he’ll still have to check it out. He’s already failed in Pennsylvania, so he’s going to start getting desperate.”

“What if it’s all just a delusion?” Fenrir asked calmly, as Jack watched from the treetops. Jörmungandr had that look about him again, he was shaking again, and both his brothers were refusing to linger on the mention of a child. The snake’s very voice had broken as the word slipped past his lips, and his siblings would in turn deny it ever happened until the day the world ends.

The snake answered with an absent wave of his hand, “Even better. It means he’s found nothing either.”

“Jörmungandr-“

“No, Fenrir, listen to me. I will do anything to stop him, do you hear me? _Anything_.”

“I hear you.” Fenrir took his brother’s wrists, which had been flying as an emphasis to each word he spat, and pressed them together underneath his palms. He let Jörmungandr’s head drop onto his chest, and stroked a hand through his hair. “How long have you been wishing to say that?”

After a pause, Jörmungandr muttered, “A while.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Shut up.”

Jack kept silent, feeling out of place and awkward as he watched his sibling fall apart again. Whilst Jörmungandr had seemed out of it earlier when they had first come into town, it was only now that Jack realised how close the Lokison was to teetering off the edge. Jack couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a child, nor the knowledge that it had been his own father who was to blame.

He had seen families torn apart because of children dying, had known his own parents had suffered through the loss – Loki more than anyone Jack had ever heard of – but he’d never stuck around to watch the fall-out. Jörmungandr was spiralling; stuck between covering his pain and expressing it, constantly yo-yoing from feeling nothing to feeling too much. Jack couldn’t bear to think about it, and Jörmungandr quite obviously couldn’t bear to feel it.

“So,” the serpent said, finally pulling away and glancing up at his youngest brother. “What do you think we should do?”

Jack blinked, surprised to be addressed, before shrugging, once more accepting the sudden shift in moods for what it was; a coping mechanism. A chance to express any tumultuous emotions without any psychoanalytic discussion, an opportunity to bear one hurting soul to another. Brothers bonded by grief. Today was not the first day Fenrir and Jörmungandr had spent together after thousands of years of nothingness, but it was probably only their second. They had both yet to learn how to let the other go, how to cope. Fenrir was clutching at his brother’s sleeve, and the snake wasn’t moving to shake him off.

Jack said, “I think goading him probably isn’t a bad idea. Since we can’t track him down, perhaps it is easier to lay a trap.”

“We’re essentially mortal,” Fenrir reminded them both, gesturing between himself and Jörmungandr and looking, as usual, completely unimpressed with the world and the idiots who lingered within. “We can set no traps which will hold a god.”

Jack grinned suddenly, feeling a crazy plan start to swirl in his mind. He buzzed with the possibilities, the potential failings, the danger involved. Somehow, his mind interpreted it as _thrilling_ , as _exciting_ , as _why the hell not?_ It wasn’t a healthy attitude, but neither, Jack knew, was his entire outlook on life. He laughed through horrors, stayed _way_ out of confrontations as much as he was able, tried to keep away from anything approaching heart-to-hearts unless they were thrust upon him, and even then maintained a defensive snark in the face of any potential emotions. As much as he’d like to punch Loki in the face, he’d much rather find himself in the middle of Russia and a town-wide snowball fight.

However, in the face of an empty town and a sudden insanity clouding his judgement, Jack found himself, for the first time in as long as he can remember, passing down the snowball fight in favour of fighting the good fight. It was jarring.

It was electrifying.

It might not even work, he reminded himself, trying to calm his buzzing nerves, but at the same time it was worth a shot. At this point, with the number of casualties bumping up every day and no lead to speak of, everyone was open to any plan, no matter how crazy.

“You’re right,” he admitted, because there was no definitive way of trapping the God of Mischief. SHIELD had learnt that out the hard way, paying a price much too high for what had been essentially a god-sized temper tantrum. “But I _do_ have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a third of a chapter. A THIRD. But no, they had to go on a bally old adventure and have unplanned brainwaves.  
> As always, thanks for reading guys. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


	28. Snap the Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA, “The Chapter that was Never Meant to Exist” because I didn’t mean for Jack to have a brainwave at the end of the last chapter and they were supposed to go straight back to SHIELD. My bad.  
> Also, sorry about fairly slow update. I went to Belgium. Very pretty. Very stressful. I had an awesome and horrific time. As an apology, this chapter is just over 9,000 words.

If Fury had wanted them back the same day, he was going to be sorely disappointed. And with no way to get in contact with the Lokisons and no means of tracking them down, the SHIELD director would soon start fretting, grow furious, begin gnawing at his nails. Or, at least, Jack liked to think so. Fury was really way too serious.

Ideally, they were headed to the North Pole, and Jörmungandr had _whooped_ outloud when Jack explained his basic idea before demanding they leave sooner rather than later.

“Santa’s Workshop!” He exclaimed when Fenrir narrowed his eyes at them both after they jumped up in the air elatedly. “I can see the curious little elves again! And the yeti beasts who manufacture the toys!”

“You are both as if children,” he chided them, but it sounded fond. He placed a hand on their heads and Jack grinned underneath the large palm dwarfing his face, whilst Jörmungandr clung onto it and started dragging his brother back towards the Finnish town. “Perhaps Jack I can forgive, but you should have grown up, or at least somewhat matured, Jörmungandr.”

“Why would I do that?” The serpent laughed. “And who would I learn it from? I had few friends to observe, Fenrir.”

“You had an octopus.”

“I _still_ have an octopus. An octopus, however, does not teach you the apparently necessary, if boring, art of growing up.” Jörmungandr said. Jack asked after it, this octopus, whilst floating above their heads. He was going to limit the time he spent on the ground, he decided, at least until he’d had someone look at his faulty limb.

Jörmungandr answered, looking wistful. “Her name is Tålmodighet. I call her Pen.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” admitted Jack.

“Surely she must have died after all these years.” Fenrir interceded, whilst Jörmungandr shrugged, face sheepish.

“Call me selfish,” he began, but didn’t need to finish, since it was obvious he had extended her life as the moon had done for Jack. Jörmungandr had been a creature of magic once, capable of amazing things. “Are we walking to the North Pole?” He clearly wanted nothing more to do with the subject, saddened by the thought of a friend he had been forced to abandon, even if it had been just an animal.

“No.” Jack replied, because that would take longer than they could afford. At the same time, the eldest of the three yelled out the same.

“No!” Fenrir snapped, glaring at his youngest brother, meaning something completely different. “Jackson, I have warned you once. Do not test me-“

“Too late!” Jack returned gleefully, kicking out the feet from under the wolf and sending him up into the sky with a gust of air. It didn’t maintain him – Fenrir wasn’t exactly a leaf on the wind – but with the support of the breeze made him almost weightless in Jack’s grip. “Don’t struggle this time, and it’ll be easier.” Fenrir didn’t seem convinced, and his thrashing forced Jack to place him back on the ground before they could travel more than a few treetops ahead of their ginger brother.

Fenrir said, “I can run.”

“To the North Pole?”

“Or,” Jörmungandr interrupted as they all stepped out of the trees and saw the town waiting before them. “We could borrow _that_.”

A SHIELD agent was still waiting for them at the edge of the park, a white expanse of snow and a frozen lake off to the left. Behind him loomed their way out.

Jack was all for adventures, for disobedience, for ruining a SHIELD agent’s day, but this prank had bigger consequences than what he was used to.

“No.” Fenrir shook his head adamantly. He said again, “I can run.”

“Do you know how to fly a jet?” Jack argued in favour of Fenrir, but the serpent just rolled his eyes at both of them.

“Of course I don’t. But I don’t need to.” He was staring at Jack now, his red eyes glinting with mischief. Jack wondered if that was what he looked like to the other Guardians prior to being chosen; so dangerous and immature. He wondered if that was what he _still_ looked like. Most likely, since he was actually considering following whatever hare-brained scheme the snake had come up with.

Jack knew he wasn’t an idiot, but he felt like it for half a minute, as the seconds ticked by slowly and his brain didn’t quite catch on to what Jörmungandr was suggesting. Until, suddenly, it did, and a part of him wanted to laugh, to get to it, to try it out, whilst another part of him was terrified of the task suddenly being presented before him.

He shook his head. “I can’t carry _that_.”

“You can carry _Fenrir_.”

Fenrir growled warningly at his brother, whose pleasant expression did not waver.

“That’s a bit different,” Jack said, because Fenrir may be large, but a jet was a _jet_. Jack was powerful, could encourage his powers to do extraordinary things, but this was on a scale he’d never pushed himself too before. He rarely picked up _people_ , never mind a plane.

Jörmungandr frowned at him for a moment, before his face lit up again dangerously. “Well, alright, if you’re unwilling to try, then I have no choice but to pilot it myself. I’m sure it’ll be easy.”

Jack snorted, but couldn’t help the way worry niggled at him. “You’re going to kill us all.”

“No,” Jörmungandr replied cheerfully. “Only Fenrir and myself. As a draugr, you’ll be quite alright.”

“I don’t know that word, but I feel insulted.”

Fenrir informed him, “It means ‘undead’.”

“Like a zombie? Do I look like a zombie to you?”

“A pale, reanimated corpse with superhuman powers? Yes, you do.”

“Thanks,” Jack started, but realised suddenly that Jörmungandr was no longer by his side. The man had set a smart pace forward, waving his hand out to the agent who stood straight as soon as he head the Lokison’s call.

“Hello!” Jörmungandr cheered, unassumingly stepping into the man’s personal bubble and suddenly covering his mouth and dashing the gun from the man’s fingers. “You won’t mind if we borrow this, will you?”

Another agent came out with her weapon poised, but Fenrir was quick behind his brother and knocked her unconscious with little more than a single blow to the head. Behind them, Jack winced.

“Seriously, I’m all for fun – it’s kind of my thing – but this is not fun.”

“You implied that time was of the essence.” Fenrir pointed out, whilst Jörmungandr climbed over into the cockpit.

“Yes, but, if I’m honest, I didn’t realise _him_ piloting a plane would be part of it.”

“Do you want to get to the North Pole or don’t you?” Jörmungandr called from the front, whilst Fenrir gazed upon Jack impatiently.

“I can fly you both!” The Guardian insisted, worrying for the potential mortality of his brothers, who didn’t seem anywhere near as concerned. Jack was surprised to find himself feeling apprehension in their place.

“Then a plane will not be much more of a stretch.” The snake insisted, turning back to the controls and hesitating only then, confounded. He missed Jack’s frown as it crossed over his face, distracted by the overwhelming amount of controls. Fenrir, however, did not.

The wolf reached out a hand and encircled it delicately around Jack’s skinny wrist. Jack was dwarfed by the size of his brother, and it made him feel insignificant. It was like looking to North for the first time, and realising that if this man weren’t so jolly, he’d be terrifying. During the first few hours of their acquaintance, he had managed to scare Jack more than once with his intimidating posture.

Fenrir was exactly the same, but without the jolly.

“Try,” He implored Jack, voice incongruently soft to his stern face, and Jack sighed. He realised that helping them would be infinitely safer than leaving Jörmungandr to his own devices.

“You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?” Jack asked the wolf, despite the fact it seemed almost impossible. The brothers had hardly known each other more than mere hours. Jack had met Fenrir first, yet the two of them did not share the same devotion as was between the elder two. A moment ago, Fenrir had been refusing to board the jet, whereas now he was helping his brother in his crazy schemes, his own fear of flying and death irrelevant in the face of Jörmungandr’s smile.

Before Fenrir could answer, though his response was obvious in his steady gaze, the snake in question suddenly yelled out in triumph, before groaning when he realised he had done little more than activate the wind-screen wipers.

“Give it up, brother, you will never get it to fly! Leave it to Jack!” Fenrir hollered, climbing into the metal plane. He seemed uncertain about it, almost petrified, but he settled into the co-pilot’s seat and strapped himself in after only a little bit of confusion. Jörmungandr tried to teach him how to work the seatbelts, all the while randomly pressing buttons. Some did nothing and some made both elder Lokisons yell out in surprise, whilst Jack nervously circled the jet and tried to coagulate all his knowledge of aerodynamics into a single thought.

“This isn’t going to work,” he muttered, but tried to gather a wind up regardless. The snow followed with it, a freeze permeating the air and a frost forming over the black plates of the plane. Neither Fenrir nor Jörmungandr noticed, startled as they were by the sudden _jolt_ as the jet was swept fifteen metres to one side.

Fenrir was pale inside the cockpit. Jörmungandr’s hand had found its way into his brother’s palm. He, however, was laughing. He might have yelled, “Do it again!” But Jack could no longer hear them above the gales of the sudden storm.

He tried to control his breathing, following whatever smattering of training Bunny and Sandy and Tooth and North had given him. They had once tried to explore the extent of his powers, but he was too afraid to know, too scared to hurt someone, that he’d lose all that he had if it turned out that he was much more than he appeared. Because of it, his friends’ attempts at instruction had never gotten very far. Not that Jack was good with structured learning to begin with.

And now he was expected to keep his potentially frail and puny brothers alive whilst harnessing the power of the winter to fly a jet to the North Pole? He felt as if he hadn’t studied enough for the big final-year exam.

The jet started to slowly shift from the ground, but it was god knows how many tons of metal and machinery and Jack had to push hard at both himself and the wind currents to do more than make it skid over the icy ground.

A blast of sudden cold air swept the plane up into the sky, but faltered as Jack’s resolve did. He managed only a brief, surprised laugh at his success, before a creeping fear of failure clenched around his gut and broke his concentration.

He tried again, summoning the winds towards him, shooting off high into the air and willing the plane to follow. He was clutching his staff with two hands, glaring at it, speaking to it, demanding it _help him a little would ya?_ Around him, a sudden storm raged, and whilst he was safely at the heart of it, his brothers were not quite so lucky.

“They’re going to die,” Jack told himself, and the last glimpse into the cockpit before thick ice crept over it showed that Fenrir was coming to terms with his impending doom, his face calm and collected, if not annoyed. Jörmungandr, meanwhile, was still pressing buttons, oblivious that at any moment Jack may wind up cracking the glass and freezing them both to death before they’d even lifted off.

As the jet began lifting into the air for a second time, Jack once more almost let them go. However, somehow, despite feeling himself let slip the terrifying power he suddenly found he was in hesitant control of, he managed to keep his siblings elevated.

He requested that the sentient wind to take them towards North’s factory, not trusting his own navigational skills when he was focusing so completely on not screwing up. The plane creaked under the pressure of the cold, of the weight of the ice, and Jack tried to restrain his own strength, something he could hardly believe, never mind command, and ease off on the frost. He panicked when the jet immediately started falling through the air, not able to maintain itself without the full support of the violent wind, and Jack was forced to set about resuming his previous storm.

He encircled the plane and pushed at it, dragging it along with him wherever the playful gusts tugged him. He could only hope they’d end up at their destination, though how he was going to land them safely was a mystery to be addressed at another time.

For now, he had to keep his attention steady. He had to make sure his resolve didn’t weaken and he kept his brothers as safe as he could. As they climbed through the air, he realised how cold it must be for them, before remembering that they were gods. They could suck it up.

He felt small. Suddenly, it was all he _could_ feel. Having his hands wrapped around a power so monumental that it was lifting an inactive plane from the ground, that it was carrying it along wherever he wanted it to, that he was controlling it, even haphazardly… It overwhelmed him. He could feel the panic building behind his eyes, and there was an incessant white noise ringing in his ears. He tried to ignore it, sternly fixing his mind on other things. It was difficult, but there were more important things at stake.

Somewhere over the Arctic Ocean, Jack realised that the strain lining his back was lessening, and that he didn’t feel the need to grip on to his staff so tightly. He started to grin, marvelling at the strength he could feel coursing through him, staring from the outside at the contained storm he had swirling around the jet, and hoping at the back of his mind that he hadn’t accidentally made his siblings into popsicles. That’d be just his luck.

He couldn’t check, however, so he tried not to concern himself with it. He flew alongside it instead, keeping an eye on any weak points and laughing gleefully as every minute passed and he found the storm easier to direct.

The next problem, however, was sticking the landing. It wasn’t so much a neat touch-down he wanted as it was healthy brothers. He had just met them, and despite Fenrir’s surly attitude and Jörmungandr’s apparent and ever increasing psychosis, he was very fond of them.

Jack, for all that he felt on top of the world and bigger every minute, his insecurities lessening as the flight became easier, was not positive whether it was possible to get them safely down. Any attempts to weaken the winds gradually would only have them tugged away by gravity too early and they’d fall to their frozen dooms. In the end, he decided he was just going to lower them as close to the ground as possible and hope for the best.

The wheels screeched unpleasantly when they landed, finding hard ground underneath the depth of snow, possibly even breaking off, and Jack pulled back his power enough to see the plane break through the dark clouds and skid dangerously off to the side. He gathered the winds to push against it, to slow its slide across the snowy dunes.

It eventually came to a stop, almost the right way up, even, if a little worse-for-wear. Jack was very proud.

He landed on the tilted nose and tried to look through the window.

“Are you alright?” He yelled, in an attempt to be heard. There was no answer.

After finding no way of peeking in to check in on his brothers’ condition, he hovered around the door, before realising it was iced shut.

He took his time to scratch at it, loosening the frost and hopefully making the door easier to break down. Jack pulled at it with his fingers, but when that didn’t help he shoved the end of his staff into a gap he’d made and called inside to get clear, just so they couldn’t later say he didn’t warn them.

He felt his own power pulse along the end of the staff, the cold and wind and ice and snow compressing and exploding at the bottom where Jack wanted it to, blowing the door wide open.

He dodged away, high up into the air, and waited for the resulting commotion to settle. In the silent aftermath, he found his breath caught in his throat. Nothing immediately stirred, and fear built up rapidly in his stomach.

He swooped down and into the plane, quite prepared to tear the machine apart in search of his siblings, to make sure they were alive. As it turned out, this was not necessary. Almost immediately he found two very blustered and wind-swept brothers almost exactly where they had left them. Jörmungandr looked a sight – his hair tangled around his face, his balance and grace long gone and his face a little green as he sprawled across his pilot’s chair and breathed heavily.

Fenrir, dark hair sticking up in random directions and eyes blown with the aftermath of fear, looked thankful to be on solid ground again. He seemed about ready to drop to his knees and kiss the floor, had he not been so consumed with, apparently, checking the integrity of the roof.

Jack came to stand beside them, grinning ridiculously at his success, before he saw the state of the plane close up. Outside, briefly, he had noticed a train of shattered parts through the snow, and evidence of how violent the storm had truly been. Inside, everything was blinking, alerts were screaming, and half of the wiring seemed to be burnt out.

He was completely gobsmacked. “How the hell did you live?”

Jörmungandr pointed up tiredly. “There’s a voice in the ceiling who was controlling the plane.” Which sort of explained why Fenrir was tracing his fingers along the top of the plane. He had to bend down to fit, glaring at every inch of metal accusingly. The serpent continued, “We don’t know where he’s hiding.”

“I’m not a person, sir,” A semi-robotic voice sounded from the speaker systems. Jack pointed his finger at it at the same time that Jörmungandr threw a plastic knife its way. “I’m an AI from Stark Industries. My name is JARVIS.”

“That was controlling the plane?” Jack whined. “I thought I was doing pretty well.”

“You would have killed us all, Phantom, File Name: Jack Frost.” JARVIS answered, polite enough to almost overlook the insult.

“I was controlling the storm! We were okay.”

Fenrir tutted. “We were _not_ okay. This JARVIS was the one who eventually stabilised us. He is truly an amazing wizard.”

“I’m an AI.” JARVIS repeated, but it only bounced off the two elder Lokisons who were too busy congratulating his skill or scouring the cabin in search of him.

“Are you a ghost too?”

“He’s a robot,” Jack finally explained, pouting that they were ignoring his awesome storm-control skills. Okay, he could have accidentally obliterated them, but on the other hand it was a pretty badass blizzard. “He’s built in.”

Jörmungandr suddenly understood, like a switch flicking in his brain. Where before he’d found himself stuck with his brother in a world of the past, where voices came from people or monsters and spirits, he was now back in the futuristic present, where he was standing in a Stark Industries jet, owned by SHIELD, sabotaged by Tony Stark’s AI to keep an eye on what the secret organisation were doing. Or, occasionally, to auto-pilot a plane when two Viking gods hijacked it for a joyride.

Fenrir only stopped searching when Jack reminded them they were on a deadline. They had already wasted too much time getting here. He longed for the days when he had North’s stolen globes to launch him across the universe in seconds.

The workshop glittered pleasantly on the horizon, but with the serpent’s excitement and Fenrir’s long step, it did not take them long to reach the doors. Yetis were standing guard, and Fenrir loomed over them menacingly whilst Jörmungandr grinned. They let the trio in on Jack’s insistence, though they were pointedly unhappy about it. This close to Christmas, it wasn’t hard to see why they were hesitant to allow Jack Frost or any relation access to the floor.

Jack was surprised to find all the Guardians present and accounted for. Whilst they were not _all_ brooding in the Globe room, miserable and anxious and waiting for news, Bunny certainly was. Tooth was flitting to and fro, far above him, consuming herself in her job but once again allowing her little fairies to do the work for her, just so she could be present and accounted for should she be needed.

Sandy was sleeping, the calmest of them all, whilst North only arrived when he was called for. All the Guardians were relieved to see Jack returned to them, if irate that he would abandon them without even a word after Burgess.

The Guardians, unlike last time when they had been distressed and distracted, were incredibly interested in the presence of Jack’s siblings. It was quite funny, the way they invisibly poked and prodded at the Lokisons, as was the way the two men flinched away as if sensing the magic when any of the Guardians came near.

Not that the big four weren’t still on edge regarding the soul gem incident. With the taking of souls, they had all soon discovered, went the belief. Even though less than a thousand children had been stolen, it still hurt each of them as if a physical blow. Jack, a Guardian who was still setting himself up, had never had much belief in the first place, so had hardly noticed when that belief disappeared. It felt similar to how it had done before. The others, on the other hand…

But, for now, the attacks across the world had stopped, and they were all taking a breather. They needed it.

Except, of course, for North. Santa Claus still had Christmas to take care of, and it was coming up fast. He had been upset by the events, but now he had to focus on the children who he could still help, still make happy, still bring wonder to. For the rest, he could do no more than what he had already done.

Nevertheless, he put priority on being at the meeting. No matter how swamped he was with his work, he told them that it was better he help them than focus on the presents, for if they failed then there may not be any children to have Christmas for. There was an order to things, and the children, no matter what, always came first. Even before Christmas.

“What is it you are wanting to tell us?” North asked, clever enough to recognise when Jack had gathered them all for more than a general update.

Jack looked to his brothers, who were sitting at the table as they had been last time. Jörmungandr had his knife out and was carving into the table. North paid him no heed, but Toothiana was hovering over his shoulder, staring at what he was creating in between ordering her little tooth fairies around the world. Any sudden movement from her had the serpent flinching, though he could not see her.

Fenrir was watching Jack, judging his reaction to the other Guardians and figuring out where they were according to where Jack’s eyes lingered. He really was much too clever, his gaze accurate and suspicious. Bunny was obviously uncomfortable by Fenrir’s not quite seeing stare.

“What are they doing here?” The Guardian of Hope asked out loud.

“I need them. We know what’s causing all this now, with the children losing their souls. It’s something called the soul gem.”

Sandy was the one who frowned the most severely, though Bunnymund’s fists clenched in recognition.

Even though it seemed that no one needed an explanation, Jack elaborated regardless. It was more for himself than the others, since he still hadn’t quite come to grips with it all. It seemed so out there, that an insignificant little thing could wreak this much damage. “It’s taking the children’s souls. _Loki_ is taking their souls. We need to stop him and find a way to get them back.”

“As much as I like the idea of stopping kids from being hurt,” Bunny interrupted, glancing at the other two Lokisons as if they were the wisest of them all. “Is it actually _possible_ to retrieve the souls?”

“I don’t know,” Jack answered, knowing that neither would the serpent or the wolf. “But we have to try, right? And if we don’t stop Loki then more people will be harmed-“

“But how?” Tooth asked, flying from Jörmungandr to Jack’s side. “Your father is very powerful.” She noticed Jack’s wince when she referred to Loki as his father, but did not mention it. “Perhaps more than we can handle.”

Jack tutted at her pre-emptive defeated tone, injecting a bit of light into the situation. “I have something of a plan. Well, an idea. Fenrir and Jör have heard it, helped me, told me it’s possible, _and_ don’t think it’s completely terrible. Only a little.”

In all honesty, Jack’s brothers had absolutely no faith in his plan, but Jack was consoling himself with the knowledge that they didn’t understand the power of the Guardians. They hadn’t been there in Burgess when Pitch had made his bid for world domination. They hadn’t seen the way that, even weak and powerless, the Guardians had inspired such hope and belief in others that, ultimately, they had overcome even the most insurmountable odds.

“And what is this plan?” Bunny asked. Jack grinned.

“We need to stop Loki, right? Like, literally stop him in his tracks. Trap him and hold him.”

“I guess,” Tooth nodded, but she still seemed critical. “But I know of Loki. He’s a _mage_ , Jack. They’re not the kind to stay held.”

“I know. Which means we need either a more powerful mage to trap him-“

“Of which there are none,” Jörmungandr deigned to remind him, not even lifting his head from his vandalism.

“ _Or_ , we need someone who knows Loki better than we do who can tell us how to stop him, or, better yet, do it themselves. Think about it: even collectively, all we have is rumours and an occasional meet. We’re his _sons_ and we don’t know him. So, we’ve gotta think outside the box.”

“How outside the box are we talking?” Bunny glared. “Are you putting us in danger here?”

“Probably.” Jack admitted, before looking at them all individually. Even Sandy was looking at him worriedly, his usual relaxed countenance giving way to concern. “Pitch.” Jack revealed.

Bunny immediately started shaking his head. “No freaking way, mate. Not on your life.”

“Oh, come on-“

“We cannot bring Pitch and Loki together. Who do you think Pitch is going to pick if given a choice?” Tooth argued, and Sandy nodded along with her.

“Surely he needs believers too, and whatever Loki is doing is _losing_ that belief Pitch needs. It’s worth a shot! If anyone can _actually_ help, it’s him. I mean I-“ Jack stopped himself, thinking back to when he had first found Fenrir trapped in the cave and didn’t know how to break the chains. He had yelled out for Pitch for hours, hoping he would be attracted by the fear and desperation in Jack’s voice. As it were, nothing happened, no one came, but Jack couldn’t escape the fact he had called for him. Why? Well, because, despite everything, the frost spirit still knew that if anyone in the universe could achieve the impossible, it was the Nightmare King. It was almost entirely by dumb luck, good timing, and some strong and amazing children that the Guardians had won in Burgess.

Whilst Jack had faith that if they were ever caught in another of Pitch’s schemes they would still pull through, he refused to underestimate Pitch’s power. He had been a world destroyer once, and he’d known Loki since then. As the Nightmare King, as the shadowed cur of the universe, Pitch was in tune with Loki’s darker side. Perhaps he could even predict it.

“Wait, wait,” Jörmungandr suddenly tossed up into the air, destroying whatever Jack had been about to say; his persuasive and well-thought out argument about how this was actually the best idea to ever grace any of their undeserved ears, and how they should actually trust Jack once in a while, he hadn’t even thrown a snowball at a Yeti yet what did you call that if not progress? Come on, everyone- Jörmungandr cast a glance to his younger brother, then towards Tooth, who was still flittering over his head. “How is it that we can see Pitch, but not the Guardians?”

Jack shrugged, but Sandy was the first to put his hand up. The frost spirit shook his head at the rapid symbols, perhaps understanding some of it, though he couldn’t be sure. He’d make his best guess.

“I think Sandy’s trying to tell me it’s something to do with MiM.” He pointed up to the skylight, where sunbeams were filtering in and crashing across the blinking globe. “Maybe. Potentially belief. You believed in Pitch when you were young, right?”

“We believe in the Guardians.” Fenrir sniffed. “I know they are present.”

“Yeah, no, that’s not enough. There’s a difference. You believed in Pitch before you met him.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Not really. I’m trying to say that you had a belief as a kid which has, somehow, stretched over to adulthood. Whereas _knowledge_ of the Guardians doesn’t lend itself to belief.”

“Huh.” But it didn’t seem to clear anything up.

Jack shrugged. “I’m not an expert. Can we focus here?”

“Never thought I’d see the day you’d say that, kid,” Bunny praised and suddenly Jack was aware of the fact North had kept suspiciously quiet. Off in the background, sitting by unseeing Fenrir, he was staring unseeingly at Jörmungandr’s desecration of his table.

“North?” Tooth asked, whilst Jack stepped forward once and faltered. He realised what he was asking. He wanted to somehow lure Pitch here, to the North Pole, with the potential of Loki to follow. Both were mad, dangerous, terrifying. They were forces far outside any of their control, and yet Jack was requesting North freely give up his home, his passion, his reason for being, just to try and stop all this insanity before it stretched on any longer. Jack knew North would agree, but the Guardian also reserved the right to not feel comfortable about it.

It took a moment for the Russian to recognise he was being stared at, but when he did he was suddenly back to himself and smiling. Even the two Lokisons had noticed something was amiss and had followed their gazes towards North’s approximate location. The Guardian of Wonder’s display of joyfulness was not a well-rounded lie, and his unease lay clear behind bright eyes, but they all knew he would not let this stop him.

“So, how do we do this? To lure Pitch here would be difficult. He does not like coming so close to Guardians’ homes when he has so recently been defeated.”

“Fenrir?” Jack asked. “What was that spell again?”

“A trapping spell.” Fenrir explained, snatching the knife off Jörmungandr and carving a rune into the table alongside whatever nonsense the snake had been etching. “This will hold him, as it held me. The smartest way of holding a creature is to tie it within chains engraved with this, but since this is not an option available to us, instead we can theoretically create a cage. This rune at four corners will hold whomever the caster wishes within the walls indefinitely.”

Tooth asked, “Who will cast it? This trapping spell thing.” and the spirit of winter relayed this to his brother.

Fenrir scoffed, as if the question was an obvious one. “Jack.”

“Wait, what?”

“You are the son of Loki. You are the only one who has innate seiðr.”

Jack snorted. “No, no, no. I don’t have any magic. I’m bone-dry.”

“Impossible.” Fenrir scoffed, and Jörmungandr copied both word and accent, nodding seriously alongside his sibling.

“Magic is hereditary. If he is truly your father, then you are of magic.”

“Seriously, I’m not joking-“

“It’s just a few words.” Fenrir assured his brother. “Humour us.”

“It’s not going to work.”

“It’s your plan.”

“Can’t we get Hel or something-“

“It’ll work,” Fenrir stood to put his hand over Jack’s shoulder and placed his forehead companionably atop of Jack’s own. “Stop worrying about little things and trust us.”

Jack sighed, recognising he had little choice if they wanted to stop Loki sooner than later. He had less and less confidence, however, in what they were about to do. He stepped back after a moment, and Fenrir settled back down into his seat.

Bunny was the next one to speak, bringing attention to another problem. “Spell or not, it still doesn’t answer how we’re going to lure him here.”

North had the solution for that. “The signal! What better a call then an aurora across the world! It says, the Guardians are gathering. It says, _important news_.” He seemed smug and sure. “Pitch will come.”

The Guardians nodded, then looked back to Jack. In turn, the Guardian of Fun looked to Fenrir.

“The anchors need to be set simultaneously.” The wolf said. “Pass me anything heavy enough to keep in the ground and I will carve them, but I cannot place them all at once.”

“We need to split off into teams then.” Jack suddenly grinned, glancing between the stoic Lokison and the eternally jolly Russian. “Since you and Jörmungandr don’t know the lay of the land, you’ll need other partners than yourselves.”

“Invisible partners?” Fenrir asked, but Jack shook his head, clinking his necklace against his nails.

“That’s unlikely to function the way you think it will,” the wolf informed him as he slipped Fenrir’s gifted bead off the necklace and held it towards North. North frowned for a moment, eyebrows crinkling, before realising what it meant and happily taking it from his hand.

Jack did not know precisely what Fenrir saw, but at a guess it would be Jack himself disappearing whilst a large, bearded, bushy-browed Russian jittered into view. Fenrir’s attention immediately switched to him, whilst North held out his free hand.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” The wolf grumbled whilst the Guardian only grinned widely, clasping Fenrir’s palm in greeting. “Magic is such an imprecise art.” He sounded irritated about it.

“Do not fret so!” North proclaimed, shaking the bead in his upturned palm. “That it functions is good enough for now. Later we shall examine the limitations and particulars.” And despite how boring that all sounded to Jack, it made Fenrir smile; just an upturned tilt of a scarred lip, but a smile nonetheless. One point for North.

A Yeti had procured four heavy wooden blocks, and the Guardian set about copying Fenrir’s etched rune into two of them whilst the wolf completed the others.

Jack, meanwhile, had asked Tooth to accompany Jörmungandr. Whilst Sandy might have been a better choice, Tooth had shown an interest in his drawings and – of course – his teeth. Sharper and vicious, almost too big for his skull, she was both repulsed and intrigued by them. The serpent, as soon as he saw her, was in turn delighted by the array of colourful feathers, captivated by her dragonfly wings.

They’d at least get along smoother than Bunny and the snake, who would likely quickly make it into a competition to see how many insults they could spit out in under a minute. From that, the logical progression would be how many punches one could pull before time ran out.

“I could already see your little ones,” he was telling her, catching a fairy out of thin air. “But you are far more magnificent.”

Perhaps he was being sly, slimy, but he was also sincere in his own way. A genuine flattery that slid straight from the mouth of Loki, but within it held an distinct amount of heart. Tooth didn’t fall for it, but she didn’t pass the compliment up either.

“We’ll take the southeast corner!” She called, snatching up a wooden block whilst Bunny directed himself towards the northeast. Sandy took southwest, leaving Fenrir and North with northwest.

“What about me?” Jack said, following after his eldest brother, anxiously worrying at his staff. His self-doubt about magic and spell-casting remained strong, churning throughout his body like a sickness, whilst North relayed the question to the now oblivious Fenrir. Jack suddenly did not like the fact his own brother could no longer perceive him.

“Jack needs to be in the centre of it. Perhaps that will be easier for him if he is above it, outside, so he can see precisely where we are placing the blocks.” He passed over a piece of paper to North, who in turn gave it to Jack.

The spirit shot out the nearest open window, startling the Yetis who were dutifully working at their benches as he swept past them and blew toys and papers from the table. He needed the air, the height, the distance. He needed to forget, for a moment, that it didn’t hurt that his family failed to observe him without the magic infecting the beads. That they didn’t believe in him.

He had already tried to explain the concept of belief to Fenrir, Jack understood _why_ they could not see him, but it still made his gut curl unpleasantly. He felt angry, something like betrayal playing at his insides, but he knew it to be irrational and tried to ignore it. He focused on other things, such as the white horizon, the sinking sun, or the crashed SHIELD jet in the south.

He watched from far above as tiny dots of his friends stepped out into the snow. Bunny appeared out of seemingly nowhere and grumpily waited to place the wood, whilst Sandy drifted serenely towards his own corner.

North and Fenrir were trudging through the snow in another direction, whilst Tooth and Jörmungandr stood out vividly against their snowy backdrop. They were speaking animatedly, Tooth excitable and Jörmungandr cheerful as always. They almost forgot they were out on a mission, fascinated by each other as they were. Tooth was never good with human adults for reasons unexplained, but she found a supernatural being easier to cope with. For Jörmungandr, it may be nice to simply converse with a stranger who did not judge him on his family and reputation alone.

Or he might just be excited to meet the Tooth Fairy. It was hard to tell with Jörmungandr.

After having two well-aimed snowballs collide with their faces, Tooth waved up to him whilst the serpent remembered what they were supposed to be doing. The fairy gave him a thumbs up whilst the other three looked up to Jack expectantly.

He waved his hand distantly, before looking down to the paper Fenrir had given him. They all set down the blocks and a sudden wave of warmth crackled towards Jack. He felt it collide where he was hovering. He glanced at the so-called spell with hesitance. Soon after came disbelief.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.” He ran a hand over his face, smiled, laughed shortly, before rolling his eyes. “Alright. Whatever. This isn’t going to work anyway.”

He took a deep breath and hollered into the darkening sky: “I am a trap. I am a trap. Look at me, I’m a trap!” He kicked his legs out twice, as instructed, before waving his arms and continuing to shout, a strange array of syllables and noises, replicating them as best he could. All the while, he continued to dance, jerking his limbs to and fro in the air.

As he finished, he caught himself mid-laugh, aware of how ridiculous he looked, and realising belatedly what was happening. He scrunched the paper up in his hands, seeing how the others were still watching him. He darted back into the globe room and perched on top of the globe, keeping a careful watch on his leg as he did so. Once he was settled, he waited for the others to appear.

Bunny, the fastest of them all by far, showed up first, a smile threatening to break through his stoic persona. Tooth was next, politely trying to hide her laughter.

“I looked ridiculous, didn’t I?” Jack asked, and Tooth had to put a hand to her mouth to stop herself from giggling.

“Only a little,” she managed, whilst Bunny started to snort.

When Fenrir clambered back in the room, Jack hit him in the temple with the ball of paper that had once been the ‘spell’. Jack swooped down to take the bead from North and hover just out of his sibling’s reach.

“Great magic there. Do you think it’ll work?”

“I’m told it worked beautifully.” Fenrir returned, face completely serious.

“Yeah, to make me look like an idiot. That spell doesn’t need words, does it? Just the runes. Who knew you had it in you?”

Finally, Fenrir started to smile, his eyes glinting with a faint trace of mischief. “You almost killed us. This is penance.”

It was cute, Jack had to admit. “Gotta say, I like that prank better that Jörmungandr’s. Stealing a plane isn’t quite as tasteful, somehow.”

“Jörmungandr is still under the false impression that our father was comedic genius. He takes his inspiration from Loki.”

“What’s that about me?” Jörmungandr asked as he slipped in through the door. “Also did he fall for it?”

“Of course he did.” Fenrir patted his head lightly, whilst North stopped laughing long enough to pull at the lever for the aurora which called out to all the world that the Guardians were needed. Pitch would see it and, hopefully, would follow his curiosity.

“That the trap is set, now we can lay down the bait.”

After that, all they could do was wait.

\--

It was late into the night when they were all called into action.

Jack couldn’t put his finger precisely on what made him so sure that magic had done its job, but it was most likely to do with how he suddenly felt stifled, trapped, as if he were caught up in a net and wasn’t sure how to escape.

He took it as a good sign. If he felt like this, then, hopefully, so too should Pitch.

He followed the commotion down to the lowest workshop. Fenrir was blinking blearily, mused hair an indication he had been dragged out of a bed, whereas Jörmungandr was tiredly wavering where he stood, as if he had not gone to sleep at all.

Jack’s attention was caught by the writhing shadows, which consumed the large work hall almost entirely, until North pulled a switch and the room was illuminated by glaring white lights.

Pitch was suddenly visible, lurking in one of the corners, sneering at them all dourly. He looked to each of them, eyes lingering on Jörmungandr for a long moment, before moving on and settling on North. If asked Jack’s opinion, he’d have said seeing the serpent’s shadowed eyes had lighted something hideous in Pitch’s eyes. He suddenly seemed that bit brighter.

“What is the meaning of this?” For, despite his brief flash of amusement, he remained understandably angry over being caught in a magical cage.

“You fell into the trap!” North barked, humour playing with his tones. He seemed both jolly and mocking, and it sounded surprisingly vicious. But then, Jack supposed, if he had the boogeyman in his home, he wouldn’t be happy either. “I’m betting you’re feeling very silly, Pitch.”

“The word you’re searching for, Santa Claus, is ‘inconvenienced’. Oh,” He suddenly said, laughing bitterly towards Fenrir. “It’s your handy work, isn’t it? The same spell they used to bind you in those chains, for all those years; locked inside that itty-bitty cave.”

Fenrir, kudos to him, did not rise to Pitch’s mocking. The black-clad spirit continued.

“I assume there’s a reason that I’m here? That you didn’t just tear me away from my minding my own business and not disturbing any of you, despite the fact it’s almost Christmas, for no good reason?”

“Ha! As if you were minding your own business. The reason you got caught at all is because you were snooping, so I think that it _is_ better we know where you are and what you’re up to.” Bunny sniped, ignoring Pitch’s glare. Jack swooped over him, coming to stop at the front of the group, mere paces away from the Nightmare King.

After a moment, during which Pitch watched him silently, Jack admitted, “I tried to call you in Vanaheim.”

“I know.” The shadow man nodded. “I found you there. You simply didn’t see me.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me?” Jack snapped, outraged that he would be ignored. “I needed help! Fenrir needed help!”

Pitch stood tall and silent, considering the frost spirit as if he’d never seen him before. Eventually he said, “If you needed help, why did you call for _me_?”

Jack knew the answer, but wasn’t sure how to say it. Not in front of the Guardians – his friends – who would have been there for him in a heartbeat. Sandy _had_ been there. Sandy, who had remained with Fenrir when Jack had gone off in search of Pitch, was looking at Jack questioningly now. He didn’t seem to understand either.

“It’s because I thought you were the only one who could.” Jack said, before realising that wasn’t necessarily true. He thought about Bunny and North, strong and brilliant, who would have been helpful and ingenious when it came to plotting their way around a magical chain. But they were also men endowed with heavy moral responsibility.

Jack corrected himself, “Because you were the only one that _would_.”

The fact was, at that point Jack only knew Fenrir as a beast; a monster from a story book and a gigantic wolf with dripping fangs. He had expected the Guardians to know of Fenrir and completely disapprove of Jack’s attempts to help him escape. Pitch, on the other hand, didn’t suffer from the weighty chains of responsibility.

Unfortunately, as had been the flaw in Jack’s plan, nor was he cursed with a great deal of good will, either. If Pitch did not wish to come, then Pitch would not.

He and Jack shared a tense moment, in which the Nightmare King practiced suspicion whilst Jack tried his hand at defiance. Yes, he’d admitted he wanted Pitch’s help, but no, he would not apologise for it. He needed Pitch once, and now again, but this time he wasn’t going to let the specter ignore him.

“What do you want?” The dusty creature snarled, and glared especially at North, as if this had been his idea.

“What do you know about Loki?” Jack asked.

Pitch immediately barked out a sharp laugh, suddenly aware of what direction Jack’s thoughts were taking him.

“You believe me to know his mind?”

“No,” The frost sprite snapped, lying just to see the way the toothy grin lost a few canines. “We already know what he’s doing and what he’s looking for. We want him to stop.”

Pitch was silent for a long time, thinking and staring, motionless whilst his shadows crawled up the walls, stealing back the darkness. Slowly, each light was being blown and Pitch was fading. His eyes, however, still glimmered golden against his grey skin. He said, “You wish for me to stop your father? To trap him, as you have done me?”

Coming from his mouth, looking at him with his dignified bearing whilst silhouettes thrashed behind him, serving as a visual representation of the danger lurking beneath his calm exterior, Jack realised why his plan had sounded so crazy to the other Guardians. Even Jörmungandr, who had thought it was a good idea to steal and fly a _jet_ , had no faith in this plan. The frost spirit didn’t answer, but he didn’t look away from Pitch either.

Eventually the boogeyman shook his head, smiling again. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Have you seen what he’s doing?” Jack couldn’t help but snap, waving his staff around in a tall arc. “He’s stealing children’s souls!”

Pitch held up a hand and narrowed his eyes, interrupting the spirit soundly. “You have no idea at all, do you? You appeared to not have noticed, Jack, being blinded as you are, but Loki Laufeyson is our best chance of survival.”

Jack glanced around to his companions, all of which had variations of confused writ about their features. All except Jörmungandr, who had sunken to the ground by his brother’s feet and was leaning on his legs, eyes clenched tightly together. Jack didn’t have time for concern whilst Pitch was standing right there, but he had no doubt in his mind that the Nightmare King had something to do with whatever was now wrong with the serpent.

“What do you mean?” He asked, before pointing at his brother. “And what did you do?”

“Nothing.” Pitch answered the second question first, smiling lightly. “He’s suffering from nightmares, that is all. His avoidance of sleep has forced them into daytime dreaming, and my presence only riles up the fears.”

Fenrir interjected, his hand protective on the top of Jörmungandr’s head. “Stop it right now!”

Pitch snorted. “I can no more cease my influence as the Guardians cannot help spreading their light.” He sneered then, turning back to Jack. “As for your previous askance, perhaps you should consult with your father.”

“I’d actually prefer to have him caged, preferably somewhere where he can’t reach any one. _Then_ I’ll ask him.” Jack returned.

Pitch didn’t appear to listen, and was already thinking on another train of thought. “Not that you’d get answers from him, the poor thing. He’s unravelled so rapidly. But then, I’m not surprised, after what he’s been through-“

“Sorry, _what_?”

But again, Pitch had moved on and wasn’t about to let the conversation steer backwards. He wanted to get this over with, but realised that he was stuck. He sighed dramatically. “It’s clear that you won’t let me go until I agree to your ridiculous demands, and I will continue most adamantly refusing to help you. Now, how shall we break this impasse? How about this: You let me go, and I won’t destroy you all in your dreams.”

“I haven’t had time to sleep lately,” Jack snarled, stepping forward menacingly, staff first. Pitch didn’t cower, and sneered as Jack leaned in close. “What with all these children I’ve been forced to save.”

Pitch scoffed, rolling his eyes, and it took all Jack had to not aim a rain of icicles into his smug, dull-coloured face. The spirit wasn’t the only one outraged by this, as immediately the Guardians put on offensive stances.

“You realise Loki is stealing children’s souls? You’re going to lose believers too!” Bunny roared, but Pitch only tutted.

“Rabbit, it may be hard for you to comprehend, but I do not solely exist within the minds of children. _Fear_ keeps me alive. Belief merely invigorates me. For now, I am willing to survive rather than to thrive.”

“Why?” Tooth asked furiously. “What is it that you’re so scared of?”

Pitch narrowed his eyes, and it was likely that no one had ever called Pitch _afraid_.

“Something a lot bigger than all of us. I am not willing to get involved.”

“Your definition of ‘not involved’ being alerting Asgard, alerting _us_ of Asgard, and generally pointing everyone in the right direction?” Jörmungandr asked honestly, tiredly, still slump against Fenrir’s legs. His eyes were distant, hazy, unfocused, and he jumped at any slight movement the shadows made.

Pitch looked like he wanted to defend himself, to make himself out to be a neutral party in whatever was happening, but faltered, caught out. He started to smile with his yellow teeth, and finally shrugged.

“A defence measure. You’re all so pointedly blinded by your presumptions and prophecy that you daren’t dream a little wider. I would prefer your eyes open sooner rather than later.”

“But you won’t tell us what is going on, nor why you won’t help us stop Loki?”

Pitch didn’t take long to think about it, putting on a show of contemplation in the aim of aggravation. “No. I will not be implicated in this, and if I am I will find you all in the night.” His voice dropped in tone and volume, looking them all in the eye individually, smiling softly. “There will be no escape from me, and you will all die screaming. Well,” he amended,  grinning sardonically, even as his glare was a warning. “You will if I survive.”

“Have you been helping him?” Fenrir demanded.

“What did I just say, mutt? I will _not_ be involved.”

“Can you tell us anything?” Jack asked, still crowding Pitch’s personal space. “The attacks have stopped, but for how long? Where is he going next? Pitch, if you know something and you’re not telling us-“

“What?” The Nightmare King cut across, voice low and silky and dangerous. He was beyond angry now, expression completely still and eyes dark and dead. “What will you do to me? What more _can_ you do? Jack Frost, you are in over your head, and this will destroy you all. I will be waiting, I will be watching, but I will not help you, nor Loki, nor _anything_.” He looked up, stepped back, and held out his hands in a mockery of innocence. “I am officially a neutral party. How about that? Now, if you would lift this cage, I would be gratified to leave and get back to minding my own business and letting you all kill yourselves.”

But the Guardians had no plans to do anything of the sort. If Pitch was going to be stubborn and keep his lips shut, then they were going to prove just how patient they could be too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought of the day: Reading through some fics for the first time in forever, I realised how sane a lot of people characterise Loki to be. I have adamantly refused to do this, because crazy Loki is hilarious and highly dangerous Loki. My favourite flavour.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Comments and kudos much appreciated!


	29. We Need to Talk About Jörmungandr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I’ve been everywhere and then some recently. Very busy with other writings and fandoms and stuff. Sorry, sorry.

Tony had managed to finally trap Jörmungandr in a lab. He was sat on the edge of the metallic table, glaring the inventor down. Tony, meanwhile, was taking readings.

“There’s something odd,” he announced, turning the screen so the red-head could see what Tony was seeing. “What’s that?”

 _Screw subtlety_ , _that never gets anyone anywhere_ , Tony would say when Fury demanded why he was showing the son of Loki everything they knew. Because, when it came down to it, they knew _nothing_ , and if Jörmungandr could answer some questions then it all worked out for the best.

The two of them, the serpent and his hulking brother, were meant to return from Finland the day they left. As it were, they had stolen a SHIELD jet and gone on a joyride to the North Pole. What a bunch of Frost Giants wanted to do in the icy deserts was no great mystery.

Fury had been blue in the face when they’d returned, but Tony’s respect for the Lokisons had risen with their anarchist act, and the younger of the two brothers had particularly captured the inventor’s attention.

Not that he wasn’t interested in Big-and-Bulky, but he’d had a bit of time to do some research not only on Jörmungandr, but a trace on that magical signature he wore about him. It was _very_ easy to track, and the energy signature seemed to have a half-life of just under two thousand years.

He had shuffled Jörmungandr into the lab as soon as he’d been yelled at by the Director (“I told you to come straight back!” “And we ignored you.”), and had told more than asked him that his compliance was required.

“Arm,” Tony instructed, scanning it with a light, hand-held piece of SHIELD gear. “Do you know how high your blood-cell count is?”

“No.”

“Good. Depending on how much you know about how bodies _should_ work, it could distress you.”

“Does it distress _you_?” Jörmungandr asked, and Tony considered himself too much of a man to admit that it did.

As he continued taking readings, none of which he spent any amount of time analysing deeply before he had accumulated all the data, lest he get himself pre-emptively frustrated, he tried to make small talk. That failing miserably, Jörmungandr not responding as any social norms dictated, Tony shifted his attention over to what was really bothering him.

“Okay, tell me this,” he pronounced. “How come your brother sounds Norse like your uncle, yet you and your dad sound like you’ve come from a rendition of Henry V?”

“He does sound ridiculous, doesn’t he?”

“I think you all sound like bad actors,” Tony admitted, raising an eyebrow. “Though your bro’s accent is worse than most.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Jörmungandr tried, but his mouth was twisting into a smile and the inventor found himself echoing their guest.

“ _My name is Fenrir Lokison_ ,” he said, trying to mimic the man’s bass-tones and strange slur of words. Jörmungandr immediately started laughing.

“Let me try: _Be quiet, brother, men are talking_.” It was startling how easily the red-head shifted from one crisp accent into another, and though the depth of it was off, the twist of syllables was accurate.

“It’s quite fun,” Jörmungandr commented, keeping a bit of the accent in his own voice. Suddenly, Tony realised how much he had sounded like his father, especially now he did not.

“It’s creepy,” Tony corrected, before consulting a chart Bruce had left him. “I need to take your temperature, some blood, and ask you invasive questions. You ready?”

The snake waved an arm agreeably.

“Question one, how often do you sleep on average?”

Jörmungandr frowned at the question, before shrugging. “When I become tired. Perhaps once or twice a week. It’s been more frequent recently, however.”

“How come?” Tony asked, looking up from his shorthand, noting absently the way Jörmungandr’s frown creased his forehead.

“I’m been having some strange dreams which have stopped me from sleeping when I want to, and due to them I’ve been increasingly tired. Is that relevant?”

“Depends. When did they start?”

“When I was stripped of my magic. However they did not bother me until-“ he paused, and didn’t start talking again.

“Are they like… nightmares?”

Jörmungandr hesitated. “I suppose. Are there any other questions?”

“Sure, tons. Eating habits and such. Do you eat often?”

“When I can,” Jörmungandr said. “It’s harder now. There’s more fish in the sea.”

Tony snorted, sharing a look with the smiling serpent, before continuing on.

“Okay, this is more idle curiosity,” He said, attention distracted when he glanced back to the computer screen to see how the energy sparkled prettily. “But what were you doing in Peru?”

“Peru?” Jörmungandr echoed, frowning until his memory caught up with him. “The last time I was there was during the sixteenth century.”

Tony nodded. “We found traces of a distinct magical signature which we can put to you all over the world, but Peru seemed out of the way. So, what were you doing there?”

Jörmungandr leaned forward with a playful smile on his face, before whispering, “Have you ever heard of Quetzalcoatl and Cortés?”

\--

Tony had chased the god out of his lab as soon as he had done with data collecting. Jörmungandr was a distraction; too smiley, too pleasant, yet somehow mischievous. Tony didn’t trust turning his back on the Lokison, and for good reason. He certainly didn’t feel comfortable sinking into the data whilst Jörmungandr was eying him like a literal slab of meat.

“Why am I doing this?” He asked himself for the hundredth time since Fury pushed the job on his overburdened shoulders. Bruce was significantly more suited to this biological stuff. Not that Tony wasn’t interested, because he was starting to piece things together and had only restrained himself from demanding Jörmungandr for a brain scan because he realised that the man was significantly more sensitive to noises than most people. A noisy MRI scanner might very well deafen him. But still. Tony wasn’t qualified for this.

It still wasn’t entirely clear what was happening with the Lokison, though it was obvious that Jörmungandr was made up of a complicated mix of ingredients including magic tucked neatly away inside him, some amount of foreign magic outside, and then a bright spark of repressed, powerful energy shining like a beacon on his head. Tony had caught sight of what it could potentially be, but having seen Thor’s attachment to sentimental trinkets, there was no way in hell he was going to ask the serpent for it without backup. Preferably of a _green_ variety.

When Tony had demanded Jörmungandr go find something to do for an hour, or until Tony needed him again, he hadn’t expected to find him _here_ of all places.

“Question,” Tony called out, addressing Thor and Jörmungandr as they playfully sparred in the gym, Thor winning through strength, but finding it difficult to keep hold of his slippery opponent. They stopped for a moment, both of them panting from exertion, before Tony started up again. “I’ve read about this somewhere, but aren’t you two meant to destroy each other?” It seemed strange to see them now, fighting in a friendly match when one day they were destined to kill one another.

“That is for another day, Tony,” Thor answered, sounding delighted to be sparring with someone of substance, even if Jörmungandr wasn’t quite on par with the Hulk. Tony, however, did not miss the way the serpent’s smile lost a molar and his eyes became shuttered.

“You believe in the prophecies, don’t you, Ginger?” He observed, and Jörmungandr hit at his uncle a little harder, trying to wriggle out from under his arm.

“No.” He answered, but not even Thor with all his blind trust believed him.

“Hey, I need you again,” Tony called into the suddenly tense atmosphere, whilst the thunder god gazed at his nephew softly. Said nephew, in the meantime, glared sullenly at the floor. “Maybe you can try to see whether the wolf-man is willing to beat you in a fight, Thor?”

“If by that, you mean Fenrir, I’m sure he will not best me.”

“Well, never know until you try,” Tony suggested, following the serpent as he skulked out of the room.

Back in the lab, he asked, “What was that about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, sitting back where he was before, resigned to another long session of being poked and prodded at. Tony had to give it to him, not even compliant Thor had sat this still throughout the proceedings of thoroughly testing him for the genetic key to Asgardian physical superiority. He’d have hated to know what Loki would have done in the same position. Probably turned Tony into a toad or something equally revolting out of boredom.

“Sure, you don’t.”

Jörmungandr didn’t bother answering him.

\--

“Is there any other off-limits topics I can prod at until you inevitably try to tear me limb from limb?” Tony asked, late that night, when Jörmungandr was staring to wear down from exhaustion, the shadows under his eyes making him appear hollowed out like a rag-doll.

“Apart from everything we’ve already covered and-or avoided?” The serpent blinked up at him sleepily, though he was well-practised at staying awake despite his own bodily needs. Tony had his suspicions about that, but didn’t mention it. He had other things on his mind.

“I mean Loki,” he told the ginger-haired man, who instantly become more focused on the inventor’s hazel eyes. His own red monstrosities narrowed, his lips curling to bare his sharp teeth. “Sore spot?” Tony grinned.

“You’re treading a dangerous path,” Jörmungandr warned with a foreign lilt, but the human ignored him.

“I’m just curious, since I started to know your dad pretty well, but aside from the whole teaming up with his enemies to stop the apocalypse, you don’t seem particularly resentful.”

“Resentful of what?”

“I mean that he abandoned you, went mad, tried to overthrow the world you live on-“

Jörmungandr huffed a laugh, making Tony pause over his computer.

“What?”

“Your assumptions are wrong, Stark.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to gather that. For once in my life I’m feeling a little dumb, so explain this to me, would you?”

Jörmungandr tossed up his hands, baffled. “It’s not that I am unaware he has done dreadful things in the past, and even in very recent history. Not long ago did he attack my brother. However, it is not my place to judge him. I cannot be called humanity’s friend anymore than he can.”

“Yeah, well, you’re helping where it counts.”

“And I suppose the lives I’ve taken mean nothing now that I’ve decided to step onto the lighter track?”

Tony stopped for a minute in front of the snake, their colourful eyes meeting for a moment before Tony finally stabbed him with a needle in the search for blood. Jörmungandr hissed, an animalistic noise which almost made Tony drop the vacuette.

“You and me, both.” He said.

“What are you trying to do, Tony?” Jörmungandr asked, the inventor’s name soft on his lips. Tony faltered as he put the blood on the counter, traitorous brain asking the exact same question. “Are you truly attempting to explain the inexplicable with your science?”

“Of course I am.” Tony answered, because what else was he expected to do in the face of monsters and gods and aliens and shape-shifters? Jörmungandr snorted derisively, and Tony had heard those tones before. Thor was patient enough with the inventor’s queries – he dated a scientist even more inquisitive than Tony Stark himself, after all – but even he had a limit to how often he was willing to let his friend poke at him for science. The hulking blond had shaken his head more than once, telling Tony that there was little chance of answers when humanity was so young.

Therefore, the inventor ignored the disbelieving god, and stared for a long time at the complicated strings of seemingly impossible bio-chemical make-ups which were trying their hardest to break his brain.

Eventually, the silence was snapped, and Tony startled out of a daze when he remembered there was another person in the room with him.

“If you truly wish to know, the fact he tried to find me was enough to keep my hostilities to myself.” Jörmungandr was looking at the hands he had curled in his lap. “He spent many years searching for me and for my brother. There is nothing more I would ask of a father, than simply being there when he needed to be.”

“But he wasn’t,” Tony pointed out, referring to the nasty stories Jörmungandr had kept him entertained with throughout the endless, mind-numbing hours of the day. The serpent shrugged.

“He tried to be.” And for Jörmungandr, that seemed to be enough.

\--

The next morning, Fury had called a gathering. It included Tony, Thor, the other Avengers finally being dragged into the loop, along with Jörmungandr, Fenrir, and whatever invisibly deities they deigned to bring along. Two of their visible members, Fury noted almost immediately, were missing. He was not the only one to notice an absence.

Fenrir looked around, frowning. He asked, “Where’s Jörmungandr?”

“I thought he was with Tony.” Thor said, whilst Fury pointed out that _he_ was missing too.

“Perhaps he’s still working. It’s not unlike Tony to stay up all night, ignorant of the time.”  Natasha pointed out, and it wasn’t impossible that he had dragged Jörmungandr – his test subject – along with his insane hours. It seemed the most likely story, until the red-haired god himself walked in.

Previously, whilst they had been settling, the Avengers had been formally introduced to the only Lokison in attendance. Captain America had been the first to relax his suspicions and to reach out the arm of friendship. Five minutes later, Steve found himself fascinated by everything Fenrir had to tell him. Even Natasha, not one to be swayed by sob-stories, was watching him carefully when the large man had recounted a brief overview of the trials and tribulations he had endured.

Steve, having spent the majority of his life puny and weak, understood the feeling of helplessness. He could empathise with the mocking Fenrir had suffered, and also the fear. Once Steve had fought enough battles, there had been many soldiers that had started to become intimidated by his size and strength too.

For the Asgardians, size wasn’t necessarily the issue; having frequently come to blows with creatures several times their mass, the height and breadth of a person was not scary to them. What had caused their distrust and eventual incarceration of Fenrir had been his parentage and his intelligence.

Steve understood that, too.

Fenrir was polite but withdrawn, and remained that way even when his brother waltzed in late. Jörmungandr found his place next to his sibling, and ignored Fury’s glare in favour of eyeballing the strangers.

Eventually, after a tense moment where the Avengers stared at the Loki doppelganger and said doppelganger considered each of them individually, Jörmungandr beamed.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.” He exclaimed, and Fenrir had to hold his wrist to keep the ginger from jumping up from his seat with excitement.

“Avengers, this is the psychotic second son.” Fury introduced.

“Jörmungandr,” He corrected, shaking Steve’s hand. “I’m happy to meet you all.”

“Did Tony keep you up?” Thor asked, but was dismissed by a quick snort and a flicker of a frown. It was smothered quickly, when his attention was caught by the petulant glare of Hawkeye.

“You’ve met my father, haven’t you?” He seemed disheartened by Clint’s flared nostrils and clenched fists. Fury decided it was time to distract them all, since the majority was accounted for.

“We dug up the graves Loki was clawing at,” he announced, gesturing to a screen which showed three skeletons. They were tatty with age, indistinctive from any other human without a trained eye, and no one could give him answers when Fury paused to gauge their reaction. They were three hundred years old and dead, and that was as far as any one of them could tell from first glance.

“Who are they?” Cap asked, taking the initiative when no one else seemed willing to step up.

Agent Hill stepped forward, flicking at the screen to show some old, worn records to her audience. “Whilst I don’t know about this woman,” she pointed, “We believe that the two in the graves marked with orange stones are Abigail and Emma Overland. Or Lokison. The records of their name change suddenly one year, for no distinguishable reason, seemingly back to Abigail’s maiden name. Emma is Loki’s daughter.” She displaced an old church book, which had the official record of Loki and Abigail’s wedding date, along with the dates of the Christening of their two children, highlighted by the computer.

Thor suddenly started looking around, and Jörmungandr and Fenrir were quick to copy the motion, eyes wide with fear. They relaxed quickly, breathing out heavily in relief. The other child, the Avengers noticed, was named _Jackson_. There was a funeral date marked in the book as well.

“He’s not here?” Fury asked, and Thor nodded.

“For once, I am glad for his absence.”

“I thought Emma had lived,” Fenrir said, frowning at the picture of the three skeletons. One was impossibly small. “Jack told me once…”

Thor agreed. “I thought so myself. Loki did not say anything about Emma’s passing, and any picture I have seen of her was sketched as if she had died of old age.”

“Obviously he lied,” Clint snapped, scowling at the three gods. “It’s not unlike Loki to do that. Perhaps he’d had enough of us pathetic humans, so decided to knock them off himself-“

Thor growled warningly, but it was nothing compared to the snarl which ripped out of Fenrir’s throat. This time it was Jörmungandr who grabbed his brother by the arm to pull him back. He seemed strangely detached from the comment, as if he couldn’t bring himself to deny the possibility, even if it was his own father he was talking about.

Clint didn’t thank the serpent for his quick reactions, and was glaring at the Lokisons venomously, distinctly uncomfortable with how similar the red-head was to his parent. Whilst he didn’t say anything directly offensive at the two gods, it was clear it took monumental effort to stay his tongue.

Natasha, digging her own hand deep into Clint’s shoulder, swerved the conversation back to its intended track. “Was there anything in the graves that Loki could use as a weapon?”

“We only found trinkets. Burial treasures, like scraps of cloth and jewellery. Nothing dangerous as far as we can tell, though we’ve got the technicians working on it.” 

They were interrupted then by the arrival of one Tony Stark, neck overtly reddened with bruises and a satisfied grin on his face. Fenrir glared at him whilst Fury snapped how _honoured_ he felt, to be graced by Stark’s presence. The others, meanwhile, noticed the hostility in Fenrir’s face, already aggravated by Clint’s cruel comment. Tony did not seem to realise he was the subject of the glare from a god more akin to a bear than a man. Thor shared a look with Jörmungandr, who shrugged blithely.

“Would kicking your one-night floozy out of bed half an hour earlier have hurt?” Clint griped, eying the hickeys proudly littering Tony’s neck. The inventor scoffed.

“We stayed up late into the night, if you know what I mean. That I’m here at all is miraculous.”

“If we could get back on track,” Fury said, recounting to Tony what he had missed. Tony frowned.

“Does the Frosty the Snowman know about this yet?” He looked at Jörmungandr.

“I’m unsure as to where my brother even is,” the snake returned. “He was with us when we returned from the North Pole.”

“What about you, Stark?” Fury asked Tony. Tony blinked for a moment, having spent a mindless moment staring too long at the glint of early morning sunlight on Jörmungandr’s vivid orange hair, before refocusing.

“Sorry, what?”

“I assume that with you having time to find and woo someone back into your bed, you finished your analysis and write up for me yesterday afternoon.” Fury said pleasantly, his face expectant.

Tony cocked his mouth into a smirk. “Of course I did, dear. What do you think of me? I _never_ mix work with pleasure.”

A general consensus of disbelieving noises broke out across the table, some even spreading down to the agents working close by the podium. Tony ignored them, holding up his transparent phone.

“Data on Jörmungandr Lokison, analysed and ready to go. Do you mind, Legs?” He asked, and the serpent raised a palm in acquiescence, his other hand still wrapped bitingly around Fenrir’s wrist.

The screen flickered away from the morbid pictures of the skeletons, settling instead on graphs and mostly incomprehensible data. Bruce, who had been quiet and tense, sitting as far from the gods as possible, suddenly leaned forward in interest. He would have helped with the gathering of data, if it hadn’t been for Jörmungandr’s unsettling likeness to his father. Bruce had made a very compelling argument regarding blood-pressure and close contact, and Fury had begrudgingly listened to him.

“As you can see, Valeria Levitin here is too cold to be human. Frost Giant, as I have been informed. However, that’s the boring bit. What’s here, focused primarily in his skinny little belly, is a magic store, so not as powerless as he’s letting on.”

Immediately Jörmungandr scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. The All-Father stole both mine and my brother’s powers.”

“Apparently not.” Tony flicked at the screen, well prepared for this protest after a day of theoretically discussing the limitations of magic and ways to rationalise it with science with a very grumpy red-head. “Here’s a scan of your dad when he was playing Evil Overlord. A bit stronger, yeah, but essentially the same. It’s definitely magic, because the only other time we’ve seen it was when Clint was hypnotised by the tesseract.”

Jörmungandr looked about to interrupt again, but Tony stuck up a finger. “If you’d shut up for a minute, hissy. The other thing we’ve found is this.” He pointed to a part of the scan which was anomalous and significantly more powerful. “I have my suspicions as to where it’s coming from, but Jörmungandr disagrees.”

The serpent was pulling at his hair, drawing a bead with a blue stone from it, showing it to the assembled company. “Stark believes it to be this. It’s never shown any magical properties before.”

Fenrir frown at the bead for a moment, recognising it as the one his father had gifted his brother. He remembered having one much like. He said, “I had a red one.”

Suddenly, Tony’s attention moved over to him, and Fenrir forgot that for whatever reason he was supposed to be angry. Instead, confusion and something approaching revelation was starting to creep up on him.

Thor’s face closed off, and Jörmungandr looked between the three of them. He choked out a laugh, but it teetered off into disbelief.

“You’re not seriously implying-“ he started, but Thor snatched it from his grip.

“I have only seen the Infinity Gauntlet a handful of times,” he admitted, glaring at the bead from all angles. “But there is no mistaking their unique vibrancy.”

“Who gave it to you?” Steve asked urgently.

“Our father. He gifted them to us many years ago,” Fenrir answered, but was cut off by his brother.

“Well, which is it?” Jörmungandr said, his voice accidentally tilting with his brother’s accent, as if searching blindly for something familiar to cling on to. “Which bead is it?”

“Blue is the Mind Gem,” Thor informed them all, as the Avengers started crowding around, Clint and Natasha eying the Lokisons mistrustfully now that there was a suspected weapon in the vicinity. Neither man moved forward suddenly, nor tried to take back the bead. They were both trying very hard to wrap their head around the idea that they had always possessed such precious objects.

“The Mind Gem has the power to control others’ thoughts, and is potentially powerful enough to reach every being in creation simultaneously.”

“It’s a weapon, then.” Fury said, glaring at Jörmungandr who continued to look clueless.

Fenrir came to his defence, “No. It is nothing more than a sliver of the gem. It cannot have the power of the complete article.”

“It’s just a useless little ornament…” Jörmungandr whispered to himself, still trying to wrap his head around it, staring longingly at the present his father had given him when they were all still happy.

They had gone over this before. Loki had shattered the gems, and hidden them away, scattered them to the winds. He was now trying to reclaim them, presumably for his own nefarious and psychotic ends. Suddenly, the _where_ became infinitely clearer.

 “The graves,” Fenrir barked at Fury, who had gotten hold of the blue bead and was studying it critically. It seemed much too small to have unimaginable power. “You said you found jewellery, little worthless objects? Did you find anything like this? Any beads at all?”

“It did become Loki’s habit to gift them to his family,” Thor agreed, whilst Fury barked orders at Hill to collect anything remotely bead-like from the corpses.

The Director addressed the room again once she had fled to the lab-levels. “So what, he gave a shard of a gem to each of his children? What for?”

“Safe keeping, presumably. He would have known that had this been discovered under different circumstances, he’d be in extreme danger. His offspring are less likely to come into danger, but by giving them to his young, he is still able to watch over every bead.”

“But he wasn’t.” Bruce pointed out.

“He wouldn’t have known that.”

“So it was a way of keeping them close?”

Thor liked to look on the positive side. “Perhaps it was even a sentimental notion.” Even Fenrir scoffed at his uncle’s naïve outlook.

“Hey, uh, does it affect dreams by any chance? Like nightmares?” Tony interrupted, derailing any defensive statement Thor had prepared. The god considered for a moment, racking through his memories in the search of old cautionary tales that his father had told him and Loki on dark nights.

“It could, though with a shard it would perhaps only be something fleeting. Not prophetic, as they  usually are, but perhaps linked into the individuals own psyche-” Thor’s gaze shifted to Jörmungandr’s tired eyes, and how Fenrir’s arm was now holding him protectively around the shoulder.

“Well, then,” the mortal told the serpent, who continued to stare at the bead in Fury’s fist.

Captain America, ever practical, had more than dreams on his mind. It was very important that he ask: “Where’s the red one, Fenrir?”

Clint backed this line of inquiry. “Which one _is_ the red one?”

“Power.” Thor said weakly, thinking hard about something long since past. “Your beads were taken from you, weren’t they? Before you were chained in the cave? The bead would have helped your strength develop.”

“So that’s why he’s so…?” Clint made a gesture, which non-subtly pointed towards Bruce.

“Where is it?” Fury repeated Steve’s question, but Fenrir didn’t know. Thor, however, did.

“Loki’s chambers. He was furious when he learnt that Týr had taken them from you.” Fenrir did not reply.

Hill returned with a tray full of brown, dirtied and decaying objects, but on top gleamed a very familiar looking object. The colour was different, but the pattern exactly matched the style of bead Loki was so fond of.

“I assume this is what we’re looking for,” She said, picking it up and holding it out for Fury to inspect.

“What does orange mean?”

“The gem of Time. Perhaps Loki thought it would-“ Thor hesitated, frowning sadly. “Reverse age itself, to bring back his daughter?”

“Does it work like that?”

“Obviously not,” Jörmungandr said, at the exact same time that Tony harked, “Does it _look_ like it worked?” Thor glowered at both of them.

Fury growled, and returned to the centre of attention. “So, what else are we searching for?”

“The other gems are yellow and purple, and the soul gem is green.”

The SHIELD director stepped back with a sigh, the bead still in his hand, and gave himself a moment to collect his thoughts. Finally, he opened his eyes. “Alright, so we have two shards against Loki and his soul gem. This still leaves us as a distinct disadvantage, but at least I now know Loki won’t be able to amass absolute power considering I have two of his precious gem-pieces right here. Another is either in Asgard or already with Loki, and the rest are god only knows where. Does your impish little brother have one?”

“Not as far as we know.” Fenrir replied. “Hel, however, certainly does.”

“Incorrect,” A sudden voice announced, and the entire world froze.

“You dragged us out of reality,” Jörmungandr complained with a grimace, looking upon the delicate visage of his sister with distaste. “You couldn’t think of anything easier? I hate doing this, it makes me feel sticky.”

“I cannot leave my realm to talk to you in person,” she said, looking as dignified as they had last seen her, despite the worry that stained her brow. “We are under attack.”

“Where’s the bead?” Fenrir asked, priorities straight, whereas Jörmungandr started tapping at his ear when he heard a faint but high-pitched whine.

“The sliver of Space Gem I possess, as I’ve discovered it to be, is no longer in my possession. The attack was a distraction, in order for them to steal what is mine.”

“Who were they?”

Hel did not know, and this seemed to upset her more than the fact they had managed to invade her home.

“I will get it back,” she vowed, lips pressed together tightly. “You, too, Fenrir, would do well in rediscovering your own gem.”

“I have been told it is in Asgard. I cannot safely reach it.”

“Then perhaps you should find an unsafe way of collecting it.” She said with a hard glint in her eye. She let her hold on their private pocket of space slip free, the energy that it took to keep them suspended draining to even a magician of her magnitude. “You will find, when you leave, that you too are under assault. If they have my bead, I want it back.” This was her version of a goodbye.

“Thanks for all the help, Hel,” Jörmungandr called out snidely, grimacing when the confines of the space-pocket zoomed in on him and his brother, forcefully ejecting them from its existence. “Well, this is going to be fun to explain. How about we just leave the humans behind and deal with it on our own? If we’re quick, they won’t even miss us.”

As they started to blink awake, however, it was very clear that they needn’t explain anything. The Avengers had vanished from the room completely, and Fury was standing over the two Lokisons with hell blazing in his eyes. “Nice of you to join the living.” He shouted, only just audible over the blaring alarms.

“Is this a party?” Jörmungandr asked, thankful to feel the crisp air of the world rather than the slimy slide of frozen time over his skin. “I don’t much like the music.” But he had already jumped up and headed towards the entrance, tugging his brother alongside him.

Outside there were bangs and screams and delightful noises of battle. Neither the serpent nor the wolf had seen a skirmish in too long. “Let’s go regain our lost honour,” Jörmungandr suggested to his brother, laughing, and Fenrir, enthused by the already potent stench of blood, gladly matched his stride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then, here we are! All done. Phew.


	30. We Could Not Be Saved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No excuses. I’ve just been putting this off for a while. Hey guys! Long time no see.

Jack should have been there when the attack started.

The day before they had arrived back at the helicarrier thanks to a kindly donated snowglobe (though North had given him a _look_ , and Jack recalled all the incidents where snowglobes had come to be in his possession without the strict consent of the owner). The other Guardians stayed behind, keeping an eye on a trapped and increasingly agitated Pitch Black. North used it as an excuse to rope all of his friends into helping him construct Christmas.

Fury hadn’t been happy to see them, but Jack was getting the impression he was rarely happy to see anyone. Jack was invisible to the human, but his brothers still insisted he stay for the verbal berating. If they hadn’t been so old and powerful, perhaps whatever the Director of SHIELD had said might have sunken in.

After Jörmungandr had been whisked away by Iron Man and Fenrir distracted by his uncle, Jack found himself at a loss for what to do. For a while, he trailed after Thor, but after an hour of failing to liven any of their serious conversation through conveniently placed ice-slips, which caused many an agent to land spectacularly on their behind, he got bored enough to start drifting through the facility.

Then he’d found the children.

They weren’t locked up, but they were locked _down_. A hard-working team of worried nurses and doctors saw to their survival, and many were hooked up to IVs to keep them nourished. Jack had turned a corner to escape the sight, sick at the notion that he had failed and it was his fault they were like this, even when he knew it wasn’t entirely true.

There was another room, smaller and closed off, where Jack found the only two children he felt glad to see.

“Jack!” Sophie squealed, jumping off her bed excitedly and coming to cling to his leg. Pippa sat up and smiled, strained but still happy.

“Hey, you,” he said, jumping up into the air with Sophie along with him, just to hear how she laughed. It was like a spark bolted through him, and he felt refreshed, found himself chortling along with her, doing increasingly ridiculous tricks just to prolong two girls’ smiles.

Fun. Within the hectic pace and constant sting of tragedy and loss, he had missed the feeling of it. Playing a game with a child was the reason for his continued existence, quite literally, and that he had forgone the practise for so long had lowered both his mood and his ability to control his power. He had played half-heartedly with Jörmungandr and Fenrir, yes, had joked with his friends, had messed with the heads of SHIELD agents, but it did not compare to seeing the light spark in a child’s eyes, or to see hope grow in place of misery.

“Where’s Jamie?” Sophie asked suddenly, and Jack had to work to keep the smile on his face. He glanced over to Pippa, whose expression dropped, and tried to think how best to explain it to the bright child without destroying the happiness on her young face.

“He’s safe,” he settled for, but before he expand, before he could _lie_ , Sophie cut across him with childish impatience.

“Can I see him?”

“Not the best idea, Soph,” he said, trying to sound bright and blasé. He picked the girl up high, letting her get distracted from her questions through the games, before gently stating, “He’s just a little ill. You don’t wanna catch it, do you?”

She scrunched up her little nose in reply, shaking her head. “Don’t like sneezing,” she replied.

The rest of Jack’s day was spent with the girls, trying to keep their faces stretched with joy, and staying with them until some nurses came in to tuck them into bed.

Jack seriously considered sitting by the girls all night, watching the dreamsand as it swirled around their heads, melting into individual and unique dreams, but as soon as the golden light snuck through the seemingly impenetrable room, Jack knew the children were safe.

He extracted himself carefully from their bedside – with the wind on his side, he was the epitome of light-footedness – and exited into the ward where the other children were being kept.

What hit him most about the sight, ignoring the stillness and deathly silence, was that there was no sand dancing in the air. It wasn’t as if Sandy had deliberately ignored the children, nor that they weren’t sleeping, but instead it was likely that Sandy could not even find them. Without souls they were nothing more than empty bones, and what was the point in giving a skeleton a good dream?

Jack left quickly after that, motivated to hitch a ride on the icy winds and travel the world, to get as far away as he could without actually leaving the realm. And, with the image of Jamie Bennett blank-eyed and vacant tucked away in a dark corner fresh on his retinas, he was eager to find live children to play with; people who could smile as widely as Pippa and Sophie, kids who had no worries or strife.

Jack found himself in Russia, always welcome to him with its colder climate, prancing in the streets with ice at his fingertips for hours.

There, he found a group of squealing kids, making snowmen in their backyards, tossing balls at one another frantically, being ignored by their put-upon parents. They didn’t mind when Jack made the ground slicker, nor did they run inside when his emotions got the best of him and the snow became thicker and faster; it was excitement mixed with desperation and something akin to the same helplessness he used to feel whenever someone walked straight through him.

Even when night fell, he didn’t go immediate back to SHIELD. Instead he wandered the streets, hopping from city to city, glancing in store windows as the clock wound down on Christmas, storefronts and shoppers oblivious to the crisis happening elsewhere in the world. Too quickly the epidemic could crash down on this city, or the entire country, or the entire world, and nobody would be able to stop it.

Jack wondered what they all hoped to do, sitting around a table on a floating fortress, discussing the motivations of a mad-man.

He spent too long seeped in his misery that he didn’t get back to the Helicarrier in time to catch the start of an epic battle. Not that it mattered. His timing wouldn’t have made enough of a difference.

Instead, when he arrived, the hanger had been swarmed by hostile alien life-forms. And Jack realised with a start, as he hovered up close to an unseeing enemy, that he recognised them.

“Hey,” he called out to Jörmungandr, who was the closest to him and seemed quite happy tearing the creatures limb from limb with his bare hands. “Aren’t these those Chitauri things? The ones that attacked New York last time?”

“Are they?” Jörmungandr grinned, unknowing and uncaring. He hadn’t been present at the time of the last attack, and nor did he pay much attention to any past events he hadn’t been immediately involved in. Instead, Jack turned to Thor.

“Not all of them,” Thor confirmed, swinging his almighty hammer at an armoured alien who twitched once and then collapsed. “Some are quite unusual.” He pointed briefly, before turning back to his battle. Jack swept closer to the aliens who were just that bit different, who hung back, who scanned the mess of blood and bodies in search of something. They were analysing the scene cautiously, and up-close they almost seemed like a different species completely.

One set of pale eyes, seemingly glazed with age but apparently no less functioning for it, swirled in Jack’s direction, causing the frost sprite to veer backwards sharply, flinching under the sudden attention, before coming to his senses. The creature’s eyes had moved again, as if it hadn’t seen Jack at all.

Jack frowned. It had probably been his imagination; being ‘seen’ had been one of the major sources of his strife whilst he’d been alone. He’d been so desperate to be noticed that any accidental glance in the right direction had him convinced for weeks that someone had finally seen him when, in all actuality, no belief had been sparked.

Nevertheless, creeped out and now feeling uneasy, he made his way back to his brothers.

Fenrir, it seemed, was enjoying himself even more than Jörmungandr. No real surprise, considering he had a thousand years worth of rage to let out. And he was certainly letting off plenty of steam, mostly through the medium of biting into alien flesh.

“Nice to see you, brother!” He called out, though was quickly preoccupied when a large Chitauri – yet still smaller than he was – jumped on his back.

“What are they here for?” He asked Jörmungandr instead.

“Probably the beads.” The snake managed between wrestling armed aliens. Jack knocked one away from the skinny man with a blast of ice from his staff, feeling revitalised from all the snowballs and fun-times he’d had over the last day and a half.

“Beads?” He said, touching the necklace he’d tucked away under his hoodie.

“Not yours. Others.” Jörmungandr took a moment to catch his breath, smiling up at Jack with a blood-splattered face and a gory grin. “We might have a one-up on Loki.”

Instantly, though Jack still felt run down by the whole debacle and completely stressed out to see the SHIELD HQ being overrun by hostiles, he could feel his shoulders relax and a breath escape him with relief. “Always good news,” he praised. “Whoa!”

A Chitauri dove straight through him, blind with disbelief, and latched onto Jörmungandr. The snake snarled, animalistic and violent, before tearing at it with the strength of a Frost Giant.

“Would you like to make some mischief?” He offered to Jack, expression sly and evil, to which the Spirit of Winter barked out a laugh and shot up into the air. Out of the sky, snow started to fall. Calmly, at first, but with every tap of his staff to the ground, with each gentle caress of the snowflakes on the metal floor, the landscape became more treacherous. The SHIELD agents with guns backed up, able to withstand the onslaught from afar with their long-range weapons, whilst the Avengers expertly manoeuvred the difficult terrain, almost blind to it with their training.

To the Lokisons, the frost didn’t bother them. Their feet were bare, their toes flexing atop the cold ground, and there was a touch of alien blue creeping up the soles of their feet. They drew power from it, Jack realised, as each already devastating blow from the elder sons of Loki suddenly began crunching bones with each swing of their fists. There was a natural magic in them, which could turn the ice into a weapon.

However, though it helped for a while, the Chitauri weren’t helpless. They adapted quicker than Jack would have liked, figuring out how to use the skid of the ice to their advantage. Though they weren’t navigating as gracefully as Fenrir or Jörmugandr, nor were they flopping comically on their faces as Jack would have liked.

A voice interrupted the battle, smooth and low and dangerous, and every alien soldier, every agent, every Avenger, froze to listen. There he stood, dark-haired and malicious, later to the party than even Jack had been.

Loki.

He said, “Am I interrupting something?”

Jack wanted to start forward, wanted to yell and snarl and slash his staff across his father’s smug face, so apparently calm and nothing at all like the last they had seen him. What stopped him, alongside a careful tug from Thor who kept Jack in his place, was the furious look in his green eyes. He was not focused on his family, nor the SHIELD agents who were after his blood. Instead, he looked through the Chitauri army to the strange creatures at the back, before he very carefully held up something small, which glinted yellow in the sunlight.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” He asked lightly. All at once, at least seven Chitauri pounced on him. Whilst he knocked them away with a swipe of his magic and a wave of his hand – the creatures probably hadn’t even come close enough to ruffle his hair – the other aliens followed their lead and began fighting again. Fenrir got a particularly nasty claw down his already mangled face, whilst one of them caught Thor down the arm. It was harder for them to get Jörmungandr, slim and slinky, always just a fingertip away.

The Avengers, who had fought the beasts before, seemed to be faring well on their own. Black Widow and Hawkeye, though only human, were trained agents and assassins. Iron Man was staying overhead, using his longer-range weaponry, whilst Captain America stood his ground, protecting the less powerful agents.

The Hulk was smashing his way through the aliens near the edge of the Helicarrier, and Jack supposed he was probably quite happy about it.

And Loki had apparently joined in the combat. He was near to his adoptive brother, inching closer and leaving a trail of dead Chitauri in his path, though the crowd didn’t seem to be thinning. Nor could Jack quite tell where the new soldiers were being called from. There seemed to be no end to it.

When Thor and Loki were fighting back-to-back, Loki concentrating whilst Thor was trying to smother his delight with a healthy bout of suspicion, Jack was forced to come to terms with a few things: One, Loki was fighting _with_ them rather than against, and two, he had something that the Chitauri apparently wanted. The Chitauri army was not affiliated with him. Though it wasn’t conclusive, and though it only raised more questions than it answered, the winter spirit decided he could, for the moment at least, turn his back and not have a knife instantly thrown into it. Instead, he focused on his priority: the safety of his brothers.

Though they were holding their own, the sudden appearance of the yellow bead and Loki had both invigorated and infuriated the aliens. Fenrir and Jörmungandr were strong, but they were also being swarmed.

Like the Odinson brothers, the Lokisons were pressed back-to-back, clawing at the creatures in front of them without having to worry about one of them catching them from behind.

“This is fun!” Fenrir laughed when Jack came to hover by them, trying to thin out the crowd with ice blasts. Jack, having just come away from Russia with games in snow which mostly involved skating and making snow angels, had to admit he wasn’t used to this kind of entertainment.

“Maybe for you blood-thirsty Vikings,” he returned, to which his brothers only cried out with cheer. A war cry, perhaps, or maybe it was a chant more similar to a football fan’s. Really, this was all just a game to them.

Jack landed on the floor, theorising that he’d be more use in closer proximity (and wondering with no little curiosity whether he could help reach into the ice in his brothers’ souls through an increasing closeness). He, at just the wrong moment, ended up slipping on a particularly treacherous patch of ice, but was caught one-handed by his red-haired brother, who winked at him with glinting eyes.

“Careful there, Scoter. It’s a bit slippery,” he joked, before jerking them both upright to ram his claws into a Chitauri chest. Jack didn’t have time to tell him it hadn’t been the ice before the red-head’s attention was snatch back to the oncoming onslaught. Jack ducked down, using his size and skills to slide across the ice and under feet, tripping unseeing monsters and uprooting their stances from below. When they toppled, some of them lashed out to their neighbours, dragging even more of them down. Jack could hear the uproarious laughter of his siblings as he extended his perimeter.

As he came back round full circle, shooting up into the air and hovering overhead, he heard faintly: “Where is the Mind Gem?”

A Chitauri was talking, though Jack couldn’t identify which until Jörmungandr threw open his arms, with a grotesque smile on his splattered face. “I don’t have it.” He said, blocking the attack when it came straight for his heart.

Jack didn’t bother to worry, flying out quickly to help a distressed Hawkeye who had been overpowered as he’d taken a moment to collect back his arrows. Jack managed to buy him a minute or so with some ruthless freezing of various aliens, which allowed the archer to get back on his feet.

Jack turned back in time to hear Jörmungandr laugh again, delighted and mocking, and he caught sight of the vivid head of hair in time to see it face off against a flash of green light.

Jörmungandr fell to the ground with a near inaudible _thump_.

The battle didn’t deign to freeze as the body ceased moving. Jack stared, glanced between the sprawl of thin limbs in the snow, then to those who loved him: the brother, the uncle, and even the father.

“No,” Fenrir said into the thick air, shaking his head and throwing an alien carcass away from him, charging through those who jumped into his path and barrelled into him. He clawed at them, snarled, bit and screamed, all the while calling out for his fallen brother. “Jörmungandr!” He had just been standing behind him, he swore – they had been fighting together, and his brother had been _right there_ , alive and _not dead_. “Jörmungandr! Move! Get up!” But Jörmungandr did not answer.

Jack’s face was carefully blank, but his eyes glinted like a scrap of flint sparked across rock. The battles returned to in sweeping, violent waves, prompted by the fury the siblings felt for their sudden loss.

The icy surroundings became ever more perilous, no longer deigning to distinguish between friend and foe. The cold tainted the air as Jack Frost flitted to and fro, unseen and untouchable, deadly and silent. He held no mercy within his heart that day.

And then there was Loki, who had Thor’s arm locked securely around his waist. Thor kept him safe, knocking away droves of foes with a single swing of his hammer, whilst his brother looked out into the battlefield, where the splash of red hair across the ground almost went unnoticed amidst all the blood.

He didn’t speak a word whilst he stared out, watching his son lie prone, until he eventually closed his eyes to shield himself from the sight.

 _Coward_ , Jack wanted to scream, but Loki wouldn’t have heard him.

Then suddenly he moved, ripping himself from Thor’s safe embrace, tearing at Chitauri as he stalked his way across the battle ground. He didn’t pause when he passed Fenrir, or Jack, or any of the Avengers. He didn’t stop when he came to where Jörmungandr had fallen, nor did the army trying to stop his advance so much as falter him. He was aiming, Jack realised, for the Other aliens at the back, who were still standing apart from the battle, watching on coldly. They seemed startled by Loki’s switch of demeanour, frightened enough to flee from sight when he finally broke through and swiped a glowing green hand in their direction.

Loki snarled as his slash met air, before disappearing himself, teleporting away in a blink. There was time enough, between his pause and his departure, for Jack to appreciate the madness in his expression. He understood why they’d fled, since few would dare hold their ground against such an unhinged enemy.

With the absence of the Other creatures, though they didn’t disintegrate into the air themselves, the Chitauri at least stopped multiplying. Fenrir, enraged and standing protectively over his brother’s body, would have happily taken them on single-handedly.

Thor, similarly, had shut down into methodological and efficient killing, and no more enjoyment was being garnered from every kill they could put to their names. Instead, now was vengeance, and there would never be enough bodies to pay for what had been taken.

\--

Later, there was a debrief. The table was silent as Thor looked at Fenrir, and Fenrir looked at his fists, and the Avengers kept silent. Even Tony Stark, usually the one to break awkward silences with a witty one-liner or a bad joke, only offered a faint scratching as he ran his fingernail across the table.

Jörmungandr had been taken away. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t living either. He was in the same state as all the others: lifeless, empty, unmoving. The doctors had closed his eyes after they’d checked for any sign of response, finding his crimson irises more unnerving than his stillness.

In the time Jack had known his brother, short though it may have been, he had never seen Jörmungandr so stationary. They had met in battle, and they had parted there too. In between, it had been smiles and joy and anger and determinism, but never stillness. Now that he was soulless, he may as well have been dead.

Fury, feeling about as put out as the Avengers, caught in a silence that was awkward for all those who weren’t mourning, pushed forward two beads in blue and orange. Jack recognised them both, and not only because Loki had flashed one just like it only a few hours ago.

He touched the blue bead first, knowing it had belonged to Jörmungandr. “They killed him for this,” he suddenly realised, looking to Thor who nodded. Jack then turned to the other bead, the hue of the gem inside almost the same colour as Jörmungandr’s hair. It would have clashed horribly.

“This was my mother’s,” he said off-hand.

“Your mother’s?” Thor snapped, startling Jack from the brief foray into the past.

“Yeah. Loki gave it to her before I was born. She wore it on special occasions. I think she got married in it.”

“What’s happening?” Fury snapped, disliking being outside of the conversation. He was unable to hear Jack, as were the Avengers, who were staring at Thor with curious eyes. Even Tony had stopped defacing the table, though, having worked closely with Jörmungandr over the last few days, he seemed more miserable than his fellows.

“The bead belonged to Abigail,” Thor informed them, whilst Jack wondered out-loud why it was important when his mother had been dead for three-hundred years. No one answered him. “It was given to her when she was young.”

“So it wasn’t a way to try and bring her back?” Steve Rogers said, whilst Natasha Romanoff cut him off.

“The beads aren’t exclusive to the children?”

“That takes us back a step,” Tony muttered, whilst Thor sighed. He looked to Jack.

“Do you know where the other beads are?”

“I didn’t know there were other beads. Loki apparently has one, and you guys have two.” He hadn’t stopped touching them, fixated by the last few relics of his family. He remembered how the orange had shined in the sunlight on Sundays, or when they gathered for a town celebration. Abigail had clung close to her husband, had smiled, had danced with her children, and her beads had glittered brightly in her dark hair. The orange had always stood out to Jack, because it was unlike any other colour he had ever seen before. People used to ask Loki where he had found the jewel within it, but he’d never tell.

He remembered, suddenly, moving his hand to the blue gem, the glint of the sea. He remembered a pair of eyes beneath the waves, a monster travelling under the water as Jack skid over it. He hadn’t been concerned, laughing gaily and feeling free as he set the surface to ice and skated across the ocean. The monster hadn’t risen up to greet him, though Jack waved down at him. There had been a brilliant flash of blue, magnified by the weak sun and the clear ice, as the creature had suddenly sunk deeper beneath the waves.

Jörmungandr.

Fenrir had looked up now, and was staring where Jack was. They focused on the bead together, until the wolf spoke:

“My brother had been haunted by images in his sleep. He had been trying to faze them out. The use of magic from our sister, or hypnosis, or the Sandman. Perhaps if we had worked more diligently he would not have been so tired. Maybe he would have paid more attention to his surroundings-“

“Fenrir,” The person who dared to cut across the wolf had been Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, and she was unemotionally staring him down from the other side of the table. “Your brother could not have done anything to stop them-“

“It was my fault.” Tony Stark suddenly admitted guiltily, turning all attention to him. “I kept him up all night. He fell asleep briefly, but he had a nightmare and I had to wake him up…“

Fenrir was on his feet in an instant, but Thor caught his arm before he could advance upon the suitless and very much defenceless Iron Man.

“It’s not your fault, Tony,” Thor told the room more than any individual person. He was looking at Fenrir as he spoke, willing his nephew to stand down. His anger was misplaced, he was upset and looking for an excuse to unleash his rage on something other than an enemy he could no longer touch. “It’s nobody’s fault, other than those which hold the Soul Gem. We need to find them, and take back the artefact.”

“They have an endless army,” Hawkeye said and, being the one who had been caught under Loki’s spell the first time, he was a higher authority than anyone else at the table. “We need more than what we got to take them down, or get close to their leaders. Did you see them out there? Loki was one thing when he was attacking New York – he got into the fray himself. Those things, on the other hand, won’t touch anything resembling fighting, and they obviously have a quick-escape feature.”

“We need something stronger than us.” Captain America translated. “Thor, you got anything?”

“I doubt Odin would let us into the weapons vault, and that is where we keep what is infinitely powerful which would help us win this fight. He would say that with Loki on the loose, it is too much of a risk. Asgard has their own concerns for now.”

“Great,” Fury stated, clicking his tongue angrily. “So what do you suggest we do? Sit with our thumbs in our asses and wait for them to find us again?”

Thor didn’t immediately answer, staring instead at the distracted Lokisons. Fenrir had sunk back down into his chair, toying with the edge of his sleeve. Jack was watching him miserably, because that was a gesture which had been Jörmungandr’s habit.

“The Casket!” His uncle suddenly exclaimed.

“Sorry?”

“It is a relic taken by my brother when I fell to Earth those years ago,” Thor explained, inspired. “It is a dangerous weapon to any Asgardian or human who uses it.”

“Which helps us, how?” Fury wondered, unimpressed. Thor pointed at Fenrir.

“It responds favourably only to the touch of a Frost Giant.”

The wolf quickly began paying attention, eyes narrowed with the potential for retribution, for the taste of blood with a weapon that only he could use.

“However,” Thor said with a heavy tone which dashed any rising hope in the room. “When Loki took it from its prized perch in the weapons vault, he hid it. No one has been able to track it down since.”

“Then how do you suppose _we_ find it? We have a time limit, you know. We have no idea when those things are going to come back!”

Thor said, “Loki would have hidden it, somewhere where it is easy for him to retrieve. A pocket of a realm, likely, cut off from the rest of it. Somewhere where its power wouldn’t draw attention, or a realm that is largely empty. Svartlheim, perhaps, or…” he paused, eyes widening in realisation.

“Or?” Steve prompted.

Instead of Thor, it was Fenrir who finished his thought. He shook his head as he said it, already defeated. “Jötunheim.”

“It is not _impossible_ -“ Thor started, which quickly spread a look of rage over the Lokison’s face.

“Jötunheim is forbidden, it is hostile, and it is dangerous. I’ve heard that recently it was almost destroyed by none other than my own dear father. I am assuming from your optimistic yet pleading expression that you expect _me_ , as a Frost Giant, to walk unhindered into a realm which my sire almost obliterated. Do you think they won’t know me? I am of an unusual breeding.”

“We must try-“

“And how do you expect me to find it? I have no magic at my disposal, nor do I have backup or help or a clue unto where I am meant to go. I have never been to that realm, and nor have I ever wanted to.”

“It is your homeland,” Thor tried, but this was clearly the wrong choice of words.

“I am of Earth,” Fenrir reminded him sharply. “Raised on Asgard. Perhaps you forgot the centuries I spent in your company, uncle, under the watchful eye of your father? I haven’t. I know as much as I did then, and have learnt little if anything since, trapped in that cave.” He was bristling now, almost increasing in size as his voice got dangerously calmer. His breaths were even, but his eyes blazed.

“Perhaps there is a way,” Thor said softly, whilst Fenrir’s hackles continued to rise. “Your brother.”

Fenrir glanced to Jack, but the shake of his uncle’s head indicated this was the wrong answer. “Sleipnir. He can detect powerful magic, especially anything regarding his father.”

“Oh, Sleipnir! Yes, he’s the best solution.” Fenrir’s words were a snide drawl, crafty and sharp. “Odin’s own steed, one of the most powerful creatures in the entirety of Yggdrasil, and you want me to, what? Steal him? Certainly, before I get slaughtered in Jötunheim, I’ll go to Asgard and get murdered there instead.”

Thor’s lips had thinned, his patience waning, and he was frowning mightily at his brother’s son. Fenrir, in return, glowered, digging his claws into the wood of the table.

“Alright, enough,” Fury disturbed them both, rubbing at his brow. “Thor, is there any other way of getting this casket? Better yet, is there a plan other than this casket?”

“Perhaps, but the casket would aid us immeasurably.”

“Then, if Fenrir is willing to take a risk, we can focus on other ways of stopping this invasion from destroying anymore of my planet or my property, whilst he tries to find this bloody relic.”

“I’m not going to Jötunheim, and I’m certainly not going to steal Sleipnir from Asgard.”

“Does he have a choice right now, Thor?” Fury snapped, to which Thor shook his head.

“I’m not going to get killed for the sake of this miserable planet-“

“Do you want to avenge your brother? Hell, do you want to _save_ him?” Fury turned on the wolf, who had risen to his feet and was snarling down at the Director. “Because when I get to the bottom of this, I want to get those kids back and I’m not going to let something _stupid_ like cowardice stop me.”

“Fenrir, if we can help the lost children then we can bring back Jörmungandr.”

The Lokison was snarling at them all, trapped in a corner, unable to find a clear escape. He had only just won back his brother, and now he was lost again. Stretching before Fenrir was a chance to get revenge, a change to seek blood in the name of what had been sacrificed. And, on top of all that, he could even bring his brother home. But, he was terrified.

Jack said, “I’m going with you,” which started Fenrir out of the conflicted reverie he had fallen into.

Pointing, the wolf shook his head. “You stay.” He ordered gruffly. “I’ll go. If I die,” he spat, rounding on his uncle. “You will give every breath in your body, every beat of your immortal heart, to save my brother. Do you understand?”

Thor nodded, holding out a hand to swear to him. Fenrir clasped his forearm tightly, digging his nails into the skin and sealing the pact with blood. After all that, he nodded. “Get me into Asgard, and I will complete this idiotic quest.” He then quickly said, “Keep safe,” towards Jack, before following Thor out of the door and, presumably, out of the realm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaaaaaaaaaaa. Feel free to drop me a comment, I’d appreciate it.


	31. Follow Me Down

No, he hadn’t listened.

It really wasn’t all that hard for Jack to follow after his brother – just slip off the necklace, leave it with Thor (who had returned swiftly and frowned at his nephew when he went after Fenrir, but didn’t argue. Jack took that to mean acceptance, even if there was some amount of desperation pushing his decision) – and stalk after his half-brother who, as tall as he was and as indelicate as his footfalls fell on the earth, wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Jack, a spirit of the wind only capable of interacting with the world through belief and a smatter of magic, was significantly more capable of slipping by unnoticed. For many hundreds of years it had been a source of ire for him, but, for once, he realised he could use it to his advantage.

Fenrir had his own short-cuts for skimming in and out of realms, and they largely involved Hel, who agreed to get them in and out of Asgard through a conference call Jack had not been privy to. He heard the plan when Fenrir relayed it back to their concerned uncle. Jack stuck close by his brother, but not enough that Fenrir would feel him, and lingered behind when they crossed over into the other world.

What he forgot to account for was the heavy air of Asgard and the way his magic wavered as he was cut off from the Man in the Moon. He was thankful for his forethought to linger behind Fenrir’s back, else the game would have been up as soon as they arrived.

With his weakened magic also went his invisibility. He’d forgotten that in between now and his last visit to the Realm Eternal. So, it didn’t much matter that he had left his beads behind when, if his brother deigned to turn around, he would spot the white-haired spirit immediately.

Thor had told him where the stables that housed Sleipnir were before they had left and Fenrir had bit down on his tongue, trying not to grow angry that his uncle so quickly forgot the years he had spent growing and learning and running across the Asgardian landscapes. It was not that Thor had forgotten, more that Thor had yet to correlate the human-looking Fenrir with the wolf he had once been.

It was clear that Fenrir’s memory hadn’t diminished during his time trapped in the cave, since he expertly utilised the corners of practically unknowable side-streets and clever shadows to avoid any face who may become suspicious of him.

Jack tried to do likewise, aware thanks to Thor’s reports that not only was Asgard on high-guard, but they also had memories which rarely faded. Jack himself, with his mischievous snowstorm and unsavoury heritage, was a face too recent to overlook. He tried to echo what Fenrir did, remaining several steps behind so that the man did not know he was there.

It was slow moving, all this sneaking around, but it kept them safe and away from Odin’s court. Jack didn’t want to think what would happen if the two of them were caught, especially to the escaped second son of Loki, who had been locked down by the king himself. There would probably be an uproar, a massacre, and everyone dead would fall by Fenrir’s hand.

The shadows were safer if it meant that Fenrir didn’t kill anyone.

He’d make an exception for Jack, however, if he was caught sneaking after him. Fenrir’s last command of his brother had been explicit: _You stay_.

They should be going after the bead, Jack considered, glancing up to the looming skyline where the palace towered high above the rest of the city. Fenrir didn’t seem to consider the bead of the same importance as getting to Sleipnir, and likely that was regarding the fact that creatures had simultaneously stormed the Helicarrier and broken into _Helheim_ on the lookout for the beads. Likely they had already found this one, so Jack’s brother considered it a lost cause.

Jack himself believed that the lost cause was Fenrir’s sense of optimism.

The winter spirit wasn’t about to overlook the loss of his other brother, nor the effect that the sudden end of Jörmungandr had on Fenrir. The wolf was unstable enough, and as much as Jack wanted to help him overcome his grief, there really wasn’t time. Too recently had he seen the children stowed away on the helicarrier, and now Jörmungandr too. If they could get back the souls of the kids, if they could defeat the evil that was creeping over the universe, then they could bring the serpent home along with them.

Mourning could wait. Hopefully, if all went according to whatever vague plan SHIELD were concocting in their absence, there needn’t be any bereavement at all.

The stables, when they eventually managed to get there at the snail’s pace at which they had set, were as meticulously clean and open as when Jack was last here. He waited a moment to let Fenrir walk in before following, peering briefly around the corner to check that he wasn’t about to get busted.

But by that point, when he had crept up to the door and prepared to carefully creep inside, it was too late for subtlety. Evidently Fenrir held more intelligence than Jack attributed to him, because a large hand grabbed him by the front of his hoodie and slammed him up against the wall, two feet off the ground.

“You’re lucky I was attempting to keep my profile low,” Fenrir hissed. “Else I would have sent you back a good deal earlier, with more than just a cuff around the ear as punishment. Did your mother never teach you to follow orders?”

The spirit kicked at him, but with only the bare minimum of influence over the winds and weather of the Realm Eternal, there was not a snowflake’s chance in hell that he’d manage to break free.

“Are you going to send me back now, then?” Jack grinned broadly, laughing, amused by the anger on Fenrir’s face. “Don’t we have a rendezvous? There’s no way you’re getting rid of me ‘til then, so you might as well make use of my presence.”

“You think I have use for you?”

“Sure! Considering that I have no idea how Thor expects _you_ to be able to steal away _Odin’s_ steed…” he drifted off, opening up his arms and face in an exaggerated pointedness.

“And you think you can.” Fenrir extrapolated. This was a statement, but for all accounts it should have been posed as a question, going by the wolf’s expression.

“Sleipnir knows me. He loves me. Who wouldn’t?”

“Who indeed,” the wolf replied, ignoring Jack when he stuck out his tongue.

“Just ask him. We’re pals aren’t we, Sleipnir-“ But looking around for the first time, Jack realised that the horse was not where he had first met him. “Where is he?”

“You believe Sleipnir, the prize of Asgard’s stallions, to be kept in the common stables?”

“He was here last time.”

“They usually allow him to wonder. However, with Odin on alert and Loki on the prowl… Well, perhaps it is not out of the ordinary to assume that Sleipnir would be better served _not_ so freely available.”

“You mean to stop people doing what we’re trying to do?”

Fenrir glared, shook Jack, knocking his white head against the wood. Jack started to complain when a hand bigger than his face smashed down over his mouth and the world froze for a long moment. There were noises from outside, the shuffling of feet and the clank of armour, which paused suddenly near the door. However, thankfully, upon hearing no movement, there warranted no further investigation. In these times, with Loki on the loose, it seemed like bad patrolling to Jack. Someone ought to get fired. However, when it was _him_ who had snuck in and intended to get out without any arrests or being dragged in front of Odin, the guard’s lenience came as a relief.

When the soldiers had gone, Fenrir smacked him into the wall again. “I came alone for this very reason! You will get me caught!”

“Actually, you yelling at me will probably be why we’d be caught-“

“Do you wish for me to lose another brother?”

This stopped Jack for a moment, and the white-haired spirit struggled for a way of calming his brother down. He didn’t dare reach out, not knowing whether his icy skin would be a cause of comfort or a reminder that, actually, it was already too late for Jack.

He eventually managed, “I’m alright. Even if they find us, what can they do to me?”

Fenrir, staring and slowly beginning to lose steam, started to let him down. The wolf caught his arm when Jack fell closer to the ground than he expected.

“Is your leg alright?” He asked, but didn’t wait for an answer, picking Jack up and hoisting him to his hip. It was undignified and Jack wasn’t an invalid no matter what his failing leg seemed to think.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, gathering however much air he could around him to push him from Fenrir’s now gentle grip, only to land on his shoulder. The wolf didn’t protest, leading them both through the seemingly endless stables, home to every horse on Asgard.

 “I remain unsure as to why Thor believes we’ll be able to escape from here, Sleipnir in tow. He will not follow us.”

“You sound grumpier than usual,” Jack laughed, settling down more comfortably on his brother’s broad shoulder. “Has this anything to do with the object of our thievery? Do you not like Sleipnir?”

Fenrir made a low noise of disapproval, scowling at Jack. It did nothing to dissuade the boy of his brother’s hostilities.

“Oh, it _is_ Sleipnir.” Jack grinned, triumphant. “What’s wrong with him?”

“You met him, did you not?” Fenrir spoke, bitterness tingeing his tone. “You saw how he is, and how he is treated.”

“He’s a horse.” Jack reminded the wolf, in case he’d forgotten. “He gets petted and fawned over because he’s pretty.”

“He is arrogant, he is pampered, and he is adored upon as royalty.”

“I thought he _was_ royalty.”

“No more than you or I, Jackson.” Fenrir snapped. “Do you believe _I_ was treated so grandly when I lived here? And how well were you received upon your first visit to this land? I’d wager it was not with any fondness.”

“In fairness, I _did_ cause a snowstorm.”

“So does the weather, yet they never put the clouds on trial.”

Jack tried to argue this point, but came up short of arguments which wouldn’t simply be knocked aside by Fenrir’s foul mood. He leaned an arm on the wolf’s head, before trying again. Because there was something Fenrir seemed to be overlooking which, in any other case, he would not.

“He is our brother, you know?”

Fenrir so easily accepted Jack, the new member of his family, and so happily reclaimed Hel and Jörmungandr. The wolf’s relationship with his serpentine brother was bordering on obsession, the way they clung onto each other. They had found to prefer the permanent proximity of the other Lokison, and it was a wonder Fenrir was functioning now when Jörmungandr had so recently been torn from him, _again_.

“Sleipnir is a _horse_.” Fenrir echoed Jack’s previous point as a retort, cutting across the winter spirit before his next statement. “I am only a wolf in disguise, a form which I considered safer for me to remain in, whereas Sleipnir _is_ an animal. Perhaps he is praised for it, perhaps he is more intelligent and faster and stronger than other creatures of his kind, but can you consider what of me, who was more intelligent than even the gods that lived upon these lands? I was not given the freedom to explore as Sleipnir does, nor held in such high regard. We are of similar ancestry, yet treated in such differing manners.”

Jack understood now. Fenrir felt slighted by Asgard and those within it, and it was hardly a wonder when they had tricked him and cornered him and challenged him and betrayed him. He may have taken his betrayer’s arm in recompense, but it did nothing to ease the crimes done unto him. What’s more, it seemed, was that he was trapped even on Asgard, watching as the brother who was more animal than he, treated like a prince when he was considered merely a mutt. It was therefore not surprising that Fenrir had initially refused to draw Sleipnir into the plan, when he hated him so strongly.

On the other hand, Jack considered, it also went to show what Fenrir was willing to do in the name of those he considered family. He was overlooking his anger in order to save his sibling, willing to overcome age-old grudges to get Jörmungandr back.

Jack patted his head. “You’re a good guy underneath all that resentment.”

“No, I’m not.” Fenrir batted at Jack’s hand, but otherwise let him be, and Jack took that as Fenrir acknowledging for what was perhaps the first time that he wasn’t actually the Biggest Baddest Wolf in the nine realms.

The stables seemed to stretch out for miles, and the horses housed within each spacious pen tended to back away or rear from the two Lokisons as they passed. At the end, in a wide open space which was cut off by a locked half-door, stood the only creature which didn’t react negatively to their presence.

Jack hopped from his brother’s shoulder and over the half-opened door, happily bounding towards the golden creature, who, as when they first met, recognized his presence but only briefly looked him in the eye. Jack ran his fingers through his soft mane, righting beads wherever they had slipped, and appreciating the care that had gone into the horse’s maintenance. It was easy to see how Fenrir, another child of Loki, could have gotten riled up in response, having seen how his own family had been treated in comparison to Sleipnir.

What was more interesting than the beads and the brief flash of social commentary regarding how Fenrir reacted to Sleipnir, was how Sleipnir reacted to Fenrir.

Looking at him, the wolf was scruffy with stubble and scars and awkwardly cut hair; a mess of tangles and unkempt curls, the polar opposite of the golden length of hair which coursed down Sleipnir’s back. He had lingered outside the pen, struggling with himself for a good three minutes. One part of him was considering how to get to the other side with grace and dignity, but not once did that side contemplate the idea that he wasn’t going in at all. Another part of him, prominent with resentment, was likely considering how much damage he could wreak if he went berserker on them right now.

The wolf managed, eventually, to calm himself down enough that he decided to focus on the former section of his mind which was dedicated solely to crossing over into Sleipnir’s pen. He wasn’t graceful, no matter how hard he tried. With his bulk, whilst it wasn’t impossible, it was more difficult than Jack’s easy hopping in and out.

Not one for politeness, Jack unabashedly stared at him whilst he struggled, and when he did manage to hoist his second leg into the room and almost tumble towards the floor, Fenrir glowered heatedly in his brother’s direction. Jack gave him a round of applause.

Sleipnir reacted less than positively, however, causing Jack to jump up into the air to avoid being trambled as the horse raced towards the wolf. Fenrir’s reaction was defensive, for him. Whilst he lashed out a sharp-nailed hand, he didn’t outwardly attack. He stepped back towards the door, about ready to jump back over it to safety, when Sleipnir blocked his way, his massive body stopping Fenrir dead in his tracks. The golden eyes of the wolf met Sleipnir’s bright, intelligent gaze. In that moment, of the two of them it was Fenrir who appeared more animalistic.

Feeling it was up to him to intervene, the Guardian of Fun floated down to address the clever horse. “Don’t worry about him, Sleipnir – he’s just a big ol’ softie deep down.” Jack crouched weightlessly on the horse’s back and Sleipnir flicked his head, but otherwise kept his eyes trained dangerously on the second eldest Lokison.

“It is an outrage that he is kept here, in such finery!” Fenrir snapped, teeth bared, heaving with fury. “Whilst myself and Jörmungandr, two genuine sons of Loki, were left to rot!” Okay, so maybe he wasn’t dealing with his spite as well as Jack had initially thought, especially now he was faced with the horse. Not only that, but he also felt trapped, blocked in with no escape with the object of his ire caging him inside. He’d had enough of traps from Asgardian hands. Or hooves, in this case.

“Isn’t he genuine, too?” Jack asked, realising that this was not the best way of soothing his brother as Fenrir continued to snarl. The spirit worked hard to keep the smile off his face, because the prejudice Fenrir held towards Sleipnir, a horse that was older than both of them, who kept his own opinions to himself (more-or-less), was actually somewhat hilarious. He had so long been an antagonist of silly grudges, like the match between Bunny and himself, that he had to think hard on how to mediate rather than provoke. He thought of Sandy, calm and sweet, before dismissing it. He didn’t have the same gentle demeanour of the Sandman and nor, he thought, could he emulate it. A better candidate would be North with his wise words and more hands-on way of dealing with things.

Jack landed between his two half-brothers, putting his hands up in front of Fenrir. It was show of compliance, of peace, but with his staff still gripped in his right palm, there was also a pointed threat. Jack wasn’t afraid to butt in if things got out of hand, and so help them all he’d force whatever power he had at his disposal to split them apart.

“We’re here to ask for his help, Fenrir, not alienate him.”

“He’s a filthy animal. He doesn’t understand us, and nor will he willingly follow us.”

“We haven’t even asked yet,” Jack tutted, approaching the great horse extending an arm to pat his nose. Sleipnir allowed it, only turning to Jack when the spirit addressed him directly. “We’re looking for some beads with these little stones inside them. What’re they called?”

“Infinity gems.”

Sleipnir reared, and if Jack was being optimistic (which of _course_ he was), he would say it was due to their discussion. The horse started to shift uneasily around Jack, and once more he flew out of the way of his golden hooves, the terrible beat of them against the floor.

Fenrir stepped closer, posture aggressive but interested spiked, sharing a brief look with Jack before meeting Sleipnir’s light eyes.

“You know something, horse.” He accused, and Sleipnir tossed his head, made a noise. “My beads?”

“Where do you think they are?” Jack asked the horse, but it was Fenrir who replied.

“Thor said they were in Loki’s chambers, but I wouldn’t know where that lies.” Fenrir said, but by that point Jack’s mind had floated down the merry stream of memories, drifting ashore where the winding spiral of recollections inevitably landed.

“Lucky for us that I do,” Jack grinned, drifting upwards to the ceiling and over the door. Fenrir called for him to wait, tall enough to grab him if he was quick enough, but the frost spirit was still that much swifter. He darted back through the stables, over the shoulders of some panicked horses, and out through a window just large enough for his skinny frame to slot through. Behind him, he thought he heard the vaulting of a horse, the land of eight hooves as it escaped out into the open, and the furious crack of feet against wood as Fenrir followed suit.

Then it was behind him and Asgard was in front of him, and the winds were unsteady as he tried to ride them. He pushed at it, invigorated with the day of play he’d had before, but burdened with the loss of Jörmungandr and the fear of being caught. He ended up with enough strength to hop from rooftops to rooftops, sneaking into the palace and, copying the manner in which they had crept through the streets, working his way up to where Loki’s rooms might be.

Considering the size of the palace, it was a wonder he only got lost once.

The area of the palace that was marked as Loki’s was obvious by the door that Jack remembered admiring, the somewhat eerie carving of life and death, and when he slipped in the other side it was just as dusty and dark. He tried to run his mind back to when he had last been here, soundlessly shifting from wall to wall, jumping up to the ceiling then down to the ground to check every shelf and peruse every nook and cranny.

He turned quickly to a table by the bed, where he suddenly recalled touching a delicate string of bronze and silver beads. They had been glinting dimly for his attention, and he had briefly graced them with it. However, the age of the jewellery and how long they had gone untouched had made Jack flinch back from them. There had been a red gem there, he was almost certain.

But, flicking his eyes from table to table, he realised that none of them held anything remotely similar. He ducked down again, looking at the floor, under the bed, around the room, to see whether they had dropped to the floor and rolled away. It was hard with only the dim glow of whatever sunlight could peek in through the heavy emerald drapes, but eventually Jack had to concede that there was nothing to be found.

Perhaps, in his haste to find the next gem, to help the children he was supposed to protect, to stop the horror spreading further across the globe, he had simply imagined that he’d there had anything here at all.

He meticulously engaged in a second search, because Jack was thorough when it came to the things he cared about, but once again there was nothing. He would have been happy to recklessly venture out into the closest rooms around Loki’s for a good snoop, but there was still their rendezvous to consider. Hel, busy as she was, had nonetheless offered them a simple way in and out of the realm. Really, her power would be intimidating if she put it to any bad use. As it was, she had ensured a portal into her realm would open at a particular time and place, and if Fenrir, Sleipnir and Jack weren’t there when it did, they were on their own.

Jack had time, but only just. He got down to where they had arrived, following the sight of Sleipnir running through the broad streets with Fenrir hot on his heels, and wondered for a moment where the idea of _subtlety_ went.

Then he spotted the crowd of golden-helmed guards following close on their heels.

At the forefront of the pack of armed warriors sprinted a man who dressed in dark clothes, a contrast to his grey-streaked hair, which shone like bronze and silver in the low evening sun.

“Fenrir!” He roared when the wolf glanced behind him, and it was due to Sleipnir’s loud, furious noises that the wolf didn’t turn back and throw his not-insubstantial body mass towards the god.

Judging by his lack of hand, the bronze-head was probably Týr, so it was little wonder Fenrir’s usual murderous gleam had turned manic with rage. Jack decided that, since they had a bit of time, he was going to drop in, make some mischief, say hi. And, if all went well, stop his brother from killing an honoured Asgardian and getting them all into deeper shit than they already were.

Jumping down from the rooftop, he managed to gather up enough air to softly ride the wind down to Týr’s level. The god didn’t notice at first – it was hard to see with his eyes narrowed and glaring at the hulking beast of a man running just thirty metres in front of him.

Jack couldn’t help himself; he was the Guardian of Fun after all, and in this situation, the fun definitely needed to be guarded. He said: “Need a hand?”

Týr startled, almost threw himself off course when he finally spotted Jack in his periphery, and snarled at him. “Lokison!” he accused. Jack didn’t deny it.

“Hey, is that snow?” Because, even if the winds weren’t co-operating to the same extent the air-currents at home did, the manipulation of the weather was as easy as breathing. On earth he hardly noticed, the shifts of the ice so in tune with his moods, but here, even though he was still capable, he had to pay attention to the swirling flakes.

Týr stopped when Jack stopped, because although Fenrir was a threat, so too, in the eyes of Asgard, was any Lokison, no matter what size.

He slashed a sword towards Jack’s face, prompting the boy to flinch back, quickly twisting his staff to ricochet the weapon. He was reasonably sure, though it was only a glimpse in between a flash of hair and motion, that the god had almost smiled.

“You’re gonna have to do a lot better than one _sword_ ,” the white-haired spirit informed the one-handed man, who in quick succession sent Jack a blistering look before pressing the stump of his hand to a deceptively complex mechanism at one side. When he drew his wrist away, there was another sharp blade attached to the end of his arm.

“Oh, hey!” Jack praised, delighted. “That’s _handy_ , get it-“

The man swung at him again, and Jack jumped back. Not that he had needed to, since Fenrir had doubled back on himself and placed his arm in front of his brother just in time. It was stupid, and the force should have chopped the entirety of his hand off – apt revenge, perhaps – but apparently Frost Giants were made out of stronger stuff than iron.

Not that it didn’t seem to hurt. Fenrir howled as the blade was lodged in his arm, crunching the second blade in revenge as Týr swung it down to meet him.

“You think this can stop me?” Fenrir snarled, menacing and vicious – terrifying.

“Fenrir-“ Jack tried, but it didn’t seem that the wolf could hear him. He was lost, looking at Týr, a man he had for so long considered the reason why he was trapped in the cave. He was more of an enemy than Sleipnir, than Loki. Even more than the aliens who took away Jörmungandr.

For a moment, it seemed Fenrir could not even recall why they had ventured to Asgard at all, so consumed was he in tearing the weapon from Týr’s hands and ripping the other sword out of his flesh.

“Fenrir!” Jack yelled, bashing him around the back of the head with a snowball. The man needed to focus, and if a bit of fun would do it, then so help him Jack would unleash the greatest snowball fight the Realm Eternal had ever seen.

The other guards, seeing their leader face off the big bad wolf, split into two groups – one who attempted to placate the frantic beast which Sleipnir had become, and the other to circle Jack. The frost spirit twirled his staff, smiled again, and started to toss the falling snow.

“How do you Asgardians manage without a good blizzard?” He asked them, though didn’t stop for long enough to allow them to reply. Or whack him with their spears. Whichever. “Your childhoods must have been dismal.”

As he continued to counter their attacks with snow, they began to slide around on the ground, their footwear hideously anti-cold, but their steps heavy enough to condense the frost straight to ice. It was becoming treacherous quickly, and of the group only Týr seemed to be managing as well as Fenrir and Jack.

Likewise Sleipnir was holding his own, but then with eight hooves thrashing in the air, there was little chance anyone but Jack and Fenrir would prove brave enough to approach him.

Their skirmish wasn’t too long-lived, and Jack was enjoying the attention, even if it was negative. He was also utilising his ability to manipulate the elements, and weave gracefully amongst the freezing weather. It was nothing more than an extension of himself, like the ice flowing through Fenrir’s veins.

A glance over showed that Fenrir was still bleeding, but he didn’t seem to notice. As proved with the scar on his face, mutilation meant so little to him; the ache of a cut minor compared to the torments of the chain in the cave. He fought through it, instead. It was entirely possible that after the initial burst of pain, he didn’t even feel it.

He was fighting Týr ruthlessly, not giving the man an inch. It wouldn’t have been a problem to let Fenrir and the god scrap their emotions out, it probably would have done them both a world of good, if it weren’t for the black hole swirling with dust and wind and darkness that had opened in the ground some hundred metres away.

“Time to go, fellas,” Jack said to his company who were becoming more enraged with the avoidance manoeuvres of the little spirit. “I’ll leave you lot in the capable hands- Sorry, _hand_ ,” he said, grinning at Týr, who, unfortunately, took no notice of his sardonic wit. “Of your fearless leader.” And the man truly was fearless, having lost his weapons yet still grappled with Fenrir bare-handed. And he only had one of them, too.

Fenrir caught his whistle when Jack jumped over the heads of the soldiers and landed pointedly on his brother’s hunched shoulders. The sprite bounded off again quickly, towards the portal, and Fenrir focused all his rage and resentment into tossing Týr into his men, his strength monumental as centuries worth of fury bubbled over. That the Asgardians didn’t _crunch_ when they toppled over was a real surprise.

Jack asked, as Fenrir got closer, Sleipnir following them as they ran: “What happened? I left you two alone for _five_ minutes.”

“Heimdall spotted us.”

Jack considered this. “Yeah, we probably should have predicted that, what with him being _all-seeing_ and everything.”

“Get to the portal, Jack.”

“Don’t be sensitive, I’m not blaming you _solely_. Thor should have thought about it, too. So that’s why you left the stables?“

Fenrir shook his head, but didn’t immediately reply. After a second he reluctantly admitted, “There was a bird.”

“A bird?” Jack echoed, picturing Fenrir of Eternal Grumpy-Face being overcome by puppish instinct to bound after a fluttering tweety bird. He couldn’t help his bark of laughter, even when it only made his brother’s expression stormier.

“You should be more wary of the surroundings, little white sparrow-“ He started, but was cut off when the guards which had been trailing Sleipnir all collapsed on top of him, dragging him down and piercing his flesh with whatever pointy things they wielded.

“Who should be wary of what now?” Jack began, but Fenrir didn’t hear him.

Fenrir lashed left and right, displacing only a few whilst the majority stubbornly clung on. The observing frost spirit had to commend their moxie.

Happily he would have continued to watch, perhaps sniff out some popcorn, but the flickering darkness in his periphery reminded him that they were on a deadline. He wasn’t sure how much time they had, but the portal already was shrinking down, and the guards had very quickly realised that they wanted to keep the fugitives _away_ from the swirling abyss which had randomly appeared in Asgard’s sidewalk.

Sleipnir restlessly paced to and fro, staring at Fenrir and shaking his head, the noises he made deep and menacing – the two elder Lokisons really were much alike. They were both far too big, much too powerful, and utterly terrifying. Jack half-felt the only reason Sleipnir hadn’t charged into the fray was because not even Fenrir would survive it if he did.

“It’s up to me, then,” the winter spirit said, shooting up once again towards his brother and landing this time amidst the soldiers, trying to nudge them forward. It didn’t much matter to Jack if they came with the Lokisons through the portal, because once they were on the other side they would be in Hel’s domain, and that would put them all on even footing.

One warrior, apparently less concerned for the thrashing of the wolf beneath him than the rest of them, looked straight to Jack, seizing his hands around his staff. Startled, the spirit would later kick himself for not keeping his grip tight around his weapon, and when it was tossed to the side, it gave him further incentive to push Fenrir and all those dog-piled on top of him closer to the portal.

As they shimmied nearer, Jack felt an icy cold breeze drifting over them, alien to his own impromptu snowfall. He felt his hope rise with it, because with the cold came strength, not only for Jack, but for the hidden Frost Giant lurking underneath Fenrir’s skin.

With it, Jack Frost, the Spirit of Winter, felt a power seep deep into his bones unlike anything he had ever known. One moment he was clinging on to the back of his brother, but in the next Fenrir was breaking free and Jack had control of the skies. The snow fell harder, the winds started to howl, and Jack saw himself twenty feet from the ground, staring down at the conflict beneath him, even with, more importantly, the absence of his staff.

He had no time to puzzle it out, instead delighting in the tingle of magic which expanded through his body, exploding outwards. With a laugh, the winds changed directions. With a swipe of his hand, the gales became a scream of fury from the black clouds, and another twitch of his hand was rid of it.

Jack had to blink twice as the weather started to clear. The soldiers, whether they be the ones only just picking themselves up from the heap Fenrir had thrown them into or the ones who were running towards his brothers, were stood exactly where they had been as the snow had flurried around them, frozen still, encased in a thick shell of ice.

Fenrir and Sleipnir were too, but the horse was already shaking it off, completely undeterred, whilst the wolf was smashing out. If he looked a little bluer around the edges then Jack wasn’t going to mention it.

“What was that?” He asked, voice high with elation as he swept through the air, brushing close to the ground to grab his staff. He would have done a loop-de-loop, perhaps a little dance, tested the limits of his powers _with_ the staff which had always been effective in accentuate every one of his little tricks, had it not been for Fenrir’s grip on his collar and the way the Frost Giant tossed him towards the rapidly closing portal.

Jack realised it would have completely vanished by now, had it not been for the quick frost coating which also surrounded it, holding it in place. The magic was straining against it now, the ice cracking under the pressure, and Jack was the first one to jump through.

Where he landed was dark, and it was snowing. He briefed a glance around, certain that Helheim hadn’t look like this before, when he realised no one was following.

He drifted back up to the tear in air, about fifteen feet from the ground, glad to see his new-found powers still buzzing eagerly under his skin. He peeked through, and was almost hit by a hoof.

“It’s not big enough!” Fenrir roared, as if Jack hadn’t notice. “Get this stupid animal to move!”

“Sleipnir!” Jack tried to encourage, but he didn’t listen. The frost sprite pushed up, grabbing the horse by the mane and directing his head. The golden creature didn’t appreciate it, trying to shake him off, but with the boost to his system Jack wasn’t quite as wary as he should have been.

He didn’t manage to move the great horse very far, but it was enough for Fenrir to get to the side of the portal. Blue skin was being revealed all down his fingers and exposed arms, creeping steadily towards his face, and, of all things, he just seemed to be getting stronger.

“Whoa,” Jack breathed, as with the application of sheer willpower and just a bit of muscle, Fenrir pulled the edges of the hole in space open, warping the shape but extending its reach. The crack of ice found some of the soldiers struggling inside their confines, but at the rate Fenrir was going the three Lokisons would be gone before they had even broken their heads free.

“In!” Fenrir barked, and for once Sleipnir obeyed. The portal was just large enough for him to dive downwards, and Jack floated from his back as he disappeared through the darkness and into the cold world on the other side. He intended to make sure Fenrir was in too, but it seemed his brother had a similar agenda.

The wolf didn’t bother to repeat himself, only snarling at the younger boy before grabbing him by the hoodie and tossing him downwards. As he started to climb through himself, letting go of the sides, the portal rapidly decayed, disappearing faster now that Fenrir had tested its limits. It was like it was trying to make up for lost time. Fenrir, seeing the portal close in on him as his head only just started to go through, closed his eyes and quickly pressed his chin downwards, starting to scream.

The portal completely disappeared and Fenrir dropped those fifteen feet to the icy ground. Jack skid to his side, making sure his brother still had the top half of his head.

“That was a near miss,” he accused the wolf when he blinked up at him with yellow eyes. “You lost a bit more hair, so you’ll probably have to hack at it again, but otherwise no damage. Go team.”

Sleipnir was alright as well, pacing restlessly to their left. He was staring out into the world they had landed in, to its great ice plateaus to its gaping drops into nothing. It was dark, it was barren, and despite the lack of movement, of life, Jack felt invigorated. He supposed a fight with Asgard’s finest and a call closer than they would have liked regarding Hel’s fiendish portal made one look at the continued existence of life with a touch of sanguinity.

His rising giddiness was, of course, ruined by Fenrir. Jack’s irritation quickly switched to concern, however, when he looked down to see his brother gritting his teeth, biting back groans. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

The wolf was pale and shaking, and Jack looked again at his head to see if he missed something. Then down, ensuring the scrap with Týr hadn’t harmed him more than the minor nicks and bruises. There was nothing, except the spreading pool of blood by Fenrir’s left hand.

“Oh, god,” Jack started, feeling rationality fleeing him when he saw the state of his hand, or lack thereof. Struggling, his brother raised his arm to inspect the damage for himself. He had caught his fingers in the portal, let go too late, and his absent digits were probably still twitching as they bled out on Asgard.

Jack, at a loss of what else to say, stated, “That’s probably karma or something.“

And, inexplicably, Fenrir began to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO HAS ALREADY SEEN THOR 2 THRICE IN THE LAST WEEK. THAT WOULD BE ME. IT WAS AWESOME. GO WATCH IT.
> 
> Hey, look who’s starting to connect everything together! That would also be me. The beads in Loki’s room were first mentioned in chapter 6. Bwahaha. Also, it’s kinda mentioned where they went in chapter…22 I think. Who’s feeling all clever? Me again.


	32. A Taste of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! HolyGuacomole made me a fanmix for the Lokisons! It’s stunning. Go listen: http://jakeberensonisbroken.tumblr.com/post/66654419265/children-of-prophecy-a-fanmix-dedicated-to-lokis
> 
> And clockworkclown has done some beautiful art involving some of her OCs and the Lokisons for a kissing challenge on her blog: http://clockworkclownart.tumblr.com

A few hours later found them nowhere closer to finding anything, going by the tossing of Sleipnir’s head, and nor had they figured out a way of fixing Fenrir’s hand.

The wolf was walking around with a large chunk of his already ill-fitted shirt tied around his stump of a limb, leaving a large chunk of his emaciated midriff exposed to the chill. Which, stubbornly, the wolf didn’t seem to feel.

The Guardian of Fun, just trying to do his job, had attempted to lift everyone’s spirits, but as soon as Fenrir’s initial hysterical burst of laughter had died down, he’d been very sharp about Jack making any attempt at humour. He’d warned Jack with no shortage of sternness that he was in no moods for jokes.

Jack, when he forgot for a while that his brother was suffering, was completely enchanted by his surroundings. He was high up in the sky, marvelling at his staff – he was clutching it, but not using it, since the hovering was born from his own ability. That Fenrir wasn’t sharing in his glee was off-putting, but then again, Fenrir was also miserable.

He had lost his hand trying to keep the portal open for the three of them to escape, and by _hand_ , Jack meant his four fingers and his knuckles. All that was left, gruesomely, was a twitching thumb which helplessly twiddled with pain, trying to clench into an impossible fist. Fenrir had it wrapped and clutched to his chest, walking numbly through the snow as it whirled happily around them.

Sleipnir, shaking his head occasionally, bore the weather no mind, following his half-brothers in whichever direction they deemed worthy to go.

This was Jötunheim, Jack had been told, home of the Frost Giants, and it was only just dawning on him that there was a flaw in their magnificent plan. In his head, the hard part of their mission was getting _into_ the realm, and whilst that had been no picnic it was certainly a lot more fast-paced than what they were doing now.

Swooping back down to his brothers’ level, he said, “How are we meant to find anything here?” In the north, there was snow. In the south, there was snow. To the east and the west there was, and no prizes for correct guessing, _more snow_. He was the spirit of winter, snow was his _thing_ , and he _loved_ it here, but when they were on a mission to find some sacred object or another which were potentially some teeny-tiny beads which could be anywhere on an entire _world_ , he realised that they could have a problem.

“Did you just not listen to anything of the plan?” Fenrir snapped, waving his good hand in the direction of the golden horse. Sleipnir seemed very out of place in his black and blue and white surroundings. “He can sense objects of a certain level of magic. A perk of being born from it, I assume.”

“That’s nifty.”

“It better be, for the trouble I went through to get him here.” Fenrir scowled, clutching his injured arm tighter to himself. “Unfortunately, he can sense magical objects at great distance, which suggests we are not even close. Especially when there’s nothing for…” he glanced around, trying to judge a distance, settling for something that sounded suitably dramatic. “Fathoms.”

“I’m reasonably sure that’s just for water.”

“What is ice but frozen water?”

“Most commonly used for depth, not distance.”

“ _Horizontal_ fathoms.”

Jack was trying biting on his tongue to keep from offending his upset brother by chortling, failing, ending up falling backwards through the air and letting loose a very unflattering string of noises which were more like snorts than laughter.

With his mirth came a sudden flurry of snow and ice, rising up like a tornado from the ground by Fenrir’s feet and up to where Jack was hovering, knocking the wolf off balance. Jack’s humour immediately vanished when he saw his brother land on his injured side, unable to brace his fall without use of his hand.

He landed beside Fenrir, Sleipnir agitatedly pacing behind him, and tried to reach out to touch him. Fenrir flinched back, but relaxed eventually. He still didn’t let Jack physically lay a hand on him, but Jack at least managed to shuffle closer.

Lowering his voice, his tone turning into concern, the spirit asked: “Does it hurt?”

“It’s amazing,” Fenrir replied, staring at the blood-stained wrap of shirt over his oozing limb. “I’ve lost the majority of my hand, but there’s absolutely no pain.”

Jack breathed a sigh of relief, before realising that Fenrir’s expression was sour and not wondrous. “Oh , sure, _now’s_ the time for jokes; when you’re still bleeding out into the snow.”

“It’s not worth making a fuss over.” Already, without even giving himself time to relax, the wolf was pulling himself up. “But if you make any of those snarky comments about hands you directed at Týr, so help me I will ensure you share in my pain.”

“What if they’re really subtle?”

“ _Can_ you be subtle, sparrow?”

“Sure. Watch this: Best not go sailing, there might be that crocodile about.” Jack returned drily. Fenrir furrowed his eyebrows at him. “See, you don’t even know what I’m talking about. _Tick-tock, tick-tock_.”

Fenrir batted him away as he got to his feet, realising belatedly that he had clutched onto Sleipnir as he clambered his way to standing. Jack marvelled for a moment that the only person who seemed in any way to be in proportion to Sleipnir, actually human-sized when put against the horse’s impressive bulk, was Fenrir.

“You two should make up,” Jack decided as Fenrir snatched his hand away and almost tripped himself up again. “You guys actually fit, you know?” It seemed that, no, the wolf _didn’t_ know, and nor did he care to, as he huffed and stormed off.

“Where are we going?” Jack asked, still in the air, whilst Fenrir sneered unpleasantly.

“As I seem to have need to remind all who asks, I have never stepped foot in this realm before. My heritage does not insist that I can innately navigate this wasteland. I can no more find my way than you.”

Jack didn’t bother to apologise because he hadn’t meant it antagonistically, and Fenrir knew that very well. The wolf was sulking, perhaps for good reason, having gone through an emotional rollercoaster of a few days, but Jack never really managed well with sulky children. And, if Fenrir was anything, he was certainly a sulky child.

“Tick-tock,” he said absently.

“It is not subtle if I know you’re mocking me.” Fenrir snapped, picking up the pace, storming huffily through the eternal blizzard which seemed to permanently affect the ice world. With it, no matter how grumpy Fenrir acted, Jack couldn’t find it within himself to be sad.

\--

“We’ll settle down here,” Jack’s brother said, despite the fact that there was no more indication that _here_ was any better place to settle for the night than _there_ or _over_ _there_ , behind them or further ahead.

Jack put his efforts into making an igloo of sorts, large enough to comfortably hold Sleipnir as he settled into the snow, along with Fenrir as he curled up around himself. For the first time, Jack settled on the ground, before changing his mind and crossing his legs, happily hovering three feet off the ground.

The igloo had no entrance and, in turn, no exit, since there wasn't need for one. If they needed to get out, Jack could get rid of the ice. If Fenrir needed to get out without Jack’s help, he could probably smash it down with his remaining fist.

What the igloo did, first and foremost, was stop the blizzard. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, it gave them the illusion of safety. If any Ice Giants were to come across it the crude little structure stood no chance, but since they’d not seen anyone so far, Jack was going to assume the natives probably wouldn’t find a little igloo in the middle of a snowstorm in the few hours they were going to stay there.

Fenrir seemed to prefer it, the howling of the winds outside and not against his skin, everything outside muted, as if it didn’t really exist. Everything that remained real in his world-view was securely inside their make-shift den, and it seemed to focus him.

Though Jack thought he was about to go mad with the long stretch of silence, he recognised the need to hold his tongue when Fenrir looked so fierce. A more motivating factor, perhaps, was that he suddenly didn’t know what to say. Fenrir had lost everything – his father, his brother, his hope, and so far he had nothing to show for it except a vague plan of revenge which, for the moment, seemed to only be leading him to more pain. He was missing digits now, in some cruel symmetry of fate. ‘Sorry’ wasn’t an option, because Jack wasn’t sorry. He was sad and sympathetic, he could see the weight of the losses starting to weigh on Fenrir, making every step and breath harder, and he didn’t know what to do. But not once could Jack bring himself to pity the wolf. If he did, even for an instant, he didn’t know what Fenrir would do.

Eventually, after a long time where Jack tried not to twitch and Fenrir stared blankly at the curved ice wall opposite him, the older of the two said: “Why did you follow me?”

Jack shrugged, glad to be addressed but not quick enough with an answer. He thought for a moment. “I didn’t want you to get caught. Lucky that I did come along, really, considering what happened. Except the whole hand thing. But it’s probably better a few fingers than your head.” Fenrir had come very close to losing more thanjust a few strands of his hair. Jack honestly thought he had died for a second there.

Fenrir was silent again, and they both listened to the screaming of the rapid winds which they had spent the day walking against. It didn’t matter which way they turned, the wind was always working against them. That Jack hadn’t been blown off course was a testament to his new-found powers and the ease of which he was coming to control them.

There was something about this world, Jack knew, which had crept under his skin. What he wouldn’t do to stay. To keep the feeling of control and freedom and strength within him.

Whether Fenrir felt it too, the call of _home_ which kept Jack laughing at the wind which was trying to push them away rather than get frustrated by its efforts, was up for debate. If he did, he certainly didn’t show it, but that was likely because of the fact he’d just had the majority of his hand chopped off. That tended to put a dampener of even the cheeriest of men’s moods. Not that Fenrir was a cheery man to begin with.

“I didn’t think you’d want to be alone.” He then said, and glanced at Fenrir’s face. He knew exactly what he’d find there in the crease of flesh as his eyebrows frowned as much as his mouth, before restating: “You _think_ you want to be alone, but you don’t. What if you went to Asgard all by yourself and you couldn’t get Sleipnir to co-operate, or you accidentally got spotted, or you started brooding about-“ he paused, watching as Fenrir’s stance became tense and miserable. Jack put a hand to his arm and said, gently, “I’m a great distraction.”

Fenrir nodded, conceding. “You are certainly that. If nothing else, Jack Frost, you are an _excellent_ distraction.”

Things got a little easier after that.

\--

Fenrir’s hand was still a mess, nothing seemed to be magically healing, and the power which had permanently transfigured his eyes for apparently no reason was not running in to help now he was seriously wounded.

Their plan was simple: Find something, get out safely without being spotted by any natives, see Hel and get some hocus-pocus on Fenrir’s hand, go report success to Fury, and not get slaughtered at any point whatsoever. It was a solid plan, Jack liked it. It was also very boring.

And they were failing at section A: _Find something_.

The three of them were meandering in any direction Sleipnir so much as twitched his nose towards, leading to some interesting and erratic patterns in the snow. They were quickly covered up as the gales picked up, shifting the frost around like sand-dunes and erasing any evidence they had been there at all.

The two younger Lokisons were starting to consider the chance that they had fallen at the first hurdle.

“We’re not looking in the right places,” Jack once tried to insist, loving the rush of the cold and the ice and the power that came with it.

Fenrir returned, “The horse isn’t finding anything because there is nothing to find. He is a ridiculous creature who will serve us no good. Better return him to Asgard and go back to Earth – this time we will come up with a _productive_ plan.” The tone of his voice suggested he’d have preferred to use the word: _destructive_.

The winds started to fade, slowly at first, subtly, until they had disappeared altogether without Jack or Fenrir being any wiser. Jack no longer had to rely on the winds to keep him aloft so didn’t bear in mind its presence at all, and he preferred it up here than down on the ground where Fenrir would frown at him and his leg. Down there, he was taking to leaning heavily on the staff his father had made him – carved out for that very purpose – but after over three-hundred years of walking independently from the stick, he didn’t want to start again now.

It took them a long time, bickering all the way of what step they should take next – whether to wait a few days just in case, or cease wasting time over something that didn’t exist here – so neither realised that they had wandered into some sort of ice cavern, looming and open and crumbling. Fenrir was the first to frown at it, to touch the walls, and then Jack gave a whoop of excitement and zoomed up to press his hands against the ceiling.

“This is awesome!” He had never seen a natural structure like this, so neat and smooth and… symmetrical. Nature, Jack knew better than most, wasn’t always a riot of chaos and disjointed designs, but nothing like this existed anywhere on Earth, and he was going to presume that they were not native to even an icy realm like Jötunheim either.

There was a hole on the ceiling and he flew up and through it, climbing higher in the sky and scanning the ground below him, feeling excitement course through him. The silence couldn’t unsettle him, even when there was no wind or any sign of life at all, because he was honestly delighted to be where he was.

When he landed again, Fenrir said, “This looks like… a building.”

Jack was already nodding, before the wolf had so much a started on his final words. “There’s an entire city out there!”

“You act like that’s a good thing.”

“It is! It’s so cool! Ha, _literally_ -“

“Jack, we’re on Jötunheim.”

“So?”

“And what does a city mean?”

People. A city meant people. Or, in this case, more specifically, Frost Giants, of which Fenrir had assured Jack several times over were not the most welcoming of folk.

“There’s no one out there,” Jack assured his brother with certainty, because he’d have spotted, or at least heard, anything bigger than the hulking man that was Fenrir Lokison if they were skulking around in the ice outside. Sleipnir seemed calm enough, nosing around at the ground and then blinking up when no grass was discovered, unimpressed at his kidnappers for mistreating him like this.

“I didn’t pack _food_ ,” Fenrir hissed at the horse as if it had spoken, momentarily distracted from frowning at his younger brother to scowl at his older one. “I did not expect to come here for more than a day. Do you believe you are the only one hungry? What of me, who has none of your immortality, you wretched, pampered creature.”

“What?” Jack harked, drifting down to the floor for the first time since he’d escaped the igloo. “You’re not immortal?”

“Of course I’m not. T’was more than magic which was stripped from me when I was set free. In this form, I grow weak and weary quicker. How long will it take, do you believe, until my hair whitens as Odin’s, or my skin wrinkles as this mortal form dies?”

Jack shrugged, because he hadn’t before contemplated it. He hadn’t needed to. He didn’t like the fact he did now. Fenrir didn’t like the fact he had to talk about it.

“We’ll figure it out, right?” Jack asked, his voice shivering for a moment as he pushed to not demand Fenrir refocus his attention on reclaiming his immortality. Jack had already lost so much, and having already been forced to say goodbye to another brother only days ago, the sudden idea that one day Fenrir soon would too be gone was striking too many chords.

He’d never thought on his life with his family – had never believed he had one until recently, so had made his way in the world alone and isolated. He had been overjoyed, overwhelmed, to learn his relations were so many and so colourful. Fenrir, miserable as he could be, was calm and patient and sensible. Jörmungandr, lost – for now, at least – had been the complete opposite: bright and happy and erratic. They balanced each other out, Jack delighted to be a part of both of them. And then there was Hel, powerful and dependable, and the memories of his mother and his sister so recently unlocked by Toothiana and her compulsive collecting of memories.

Even Loki, cold and vicious and insane, was a part of it – a mirror image of his red-haired son, a picture of his beautiful daughter, a face echoed faintly in Fenrir’s broad jaw-line. Jack didn’t like him, was scared of him and what he could do, but he couldn’t ignore him.

Nor could the winter spirit ignore the impact these people had already had on his life. Whilst his friends were dear to him, these were the chosen people, strange and unusual and, at times, horrible, who he had started to slot into his future.

So now, the fact that his future had suddenly narrowed into the few years Fenrir had left and the distant image of Hel taking him away, it was surprising he’d kept his voice steady at all.

Jack Frost had not in three hundred years had to deal with loss. He never stayed in one place long enough to bother. He was aware of the tragedies and children deaths on the treachery of snow and ice, but never had he witnessed it. Accidents could happen, but not around him when he could save the day.

Now, he couldn’t seem to avoid it. First the memories of his mother and his sister, then the children, then Jamie, and then his brother – he was starting to unravel, he felt as unsteady as the weak limb trying to hold up even his insubstantial weight.

Fenrir was a heavy hand on his shoulder, and a pale pair of eyes watching him morosely.

“Let’s go.” He said, gesturing out the way they came. “We’d do better to avoid places like this, no matter how empty. Cities are always connected.”

“Why is it abandoned?”

Fenrir shrugged, looking to Sleipnir who followed without question as they stepped outside.

They spent a moment staring at the similar structures – looming and foreboding and a wonder they hadn’t spotted them before – and prepared to leave. This was upturned when Sleipnir reared back and charged into the alleys between the ice buildings.

“Get back here!” Fenrir barked, but the horse didn’t listen to him. Jack was up in the air again immediately, eyes following the horse’s path.

“I think he’s found something!” He called, then chasing after the beast with an easy manipulation of the cold air around him.

Sleipnir was nosing at the ground again, and Jack patted his neck as he landed softly on his back.

“There’s probably no grass, but maybe if you keep digging you’ll find something.”

Fenrir, panting with exertion of quickly jolting to full-pelt running, rounded the corner sharply and almost topped the decaying building he crashed into as he slid along the slippery terrain. He surveyed the scene for a moment. “Jack, what are you doing?”

He shrugged at his half-brother. “Keeping hope alive.” He glanced up, catching sight of something on the wall Sleipnir was pressed up against, shifting the snow at the base of the building with his hoof. “What’s that?”

Fenrir nudged Sleipnir aside with an almost violent shove, brushing his fingers over the ice, swiping away snow until the symbol carved into the side of the building was clear.

“Hey, that’s the thing Loki carved in the tree in Finland.”

“He’s been here.” Fenrir nodded, flickering his eyes around the city. “Perhaps searching as we did. It’s weeks old, faded with the ice build-up. If there was anything here, he’d have found it long before us.”

“In conclusion, we came here for nothing.”

Fenrir’s smile made him look about ready to commit cold-blooded murder. He smashed the wall with his healthy fist, delighted in the way the entire icy structure collapsed in on itself with a single blow.

“That was probably unnecessary,” Jack pointed out.

“Probably.”

“And if no one realised we were here by now, that would probably be what brings them investigating.”

“Then perhaps you should have stopped me. Is that not the duty of a brother?”

“I am the spirit of winter, not a mind-reader. My duty is to keep fun alive, not stop you killing us all. Well, you two.”

“What _would_ happen to you if you were attacked on a different realm?”

“On Asgard? Couldn’t say. On Vanaheim I seemed to manage, and Loki put a hand through my stomach, so I’d probably be okay.”

Fenrir started to pull a considering face, but a threatening creak of ice from a large, sealed-over structure swirled them around, made them jump into battle positions. Sleipnir toed at the ground, ready to charge. Jack flew up high, eyes trained on the cracks forming in the ice. Fenrir stayed in front of them with what was left of his hands braced as if he still had the deadly claws of a wolf.

“How do you believe you’d handle a fatal wound here, sparrow?” Fenrir called up, and Jack laughed. The freedom of his power, the intensity of the ice which ran through his body like a jolt of electricity, made him feel invincible. This planet didn’t set his body alight with life, but made it burn with energy. It was something more profound than life flowing through him now.

Jack didn’t _actually_ shriek when the ice fell away to reveal the monster lurking inside of it, but it was a close thing. He _did_ reel back, jumping up a further ten feet in the air, whilst even Sleipnir faltered.

Fenrir, on the other hand, was essentially an overgrown puppy – territorial and ignorant to their own size, pouncing on top of anything they deemed a threat.

The wolf probably thought it good sport, lashing out at something that seemed to pose as a worthy opponent, and Fenrir certainly needed an outlet after the experiences of the past few days. Jack would have been glad he’d found a suitable punching bag if it hadn’t been for the fact it was at least twenty times the size of him.

Whatever the monster was, it was ugly. It had small eyes but big claws, with a gaping jaw full of teeth. It was as dark as its surroundings and effortlessly blended into the dark back-drop of Jötunheim, where the sun was too far away and the night seemingly permanent. However, Fenrir had lived in the dark almost all of his life, and his eyes did not slip as the monster started to circle him.

Jack found energy from the environment – the seiðr in the air, as he was sure Jörmungandr would call it – whereas Fenrir drew it from the movement and adrenaline of battle. Jack had seen flickers of blue inch up his arm as they had escaped Asgard and the portal to Jötunheim had opened. The planet had a similar effect on Fenrir, but apparently needed a little more effort to emerge triumphant over the mask of a skin.

Fenrir, even though he had locked his working hand around the creature’s tusks and the beast had roared at him loud enough to shatter the trembling ice from the other side of the city, seemed quite happy. Jack, the guardian of fun, had to commend him for finding joy in even the most unlikely of places.

Sleipnir meanwhile had, sensibly, turned tail and run. Jack thought this was the best solution – a tactical retreat – and moved to follow, struggling to keep up with what was the fastest creature in the universe. He was distracted as he focused himself on Sleipnir, and didn’t realise until they were suddenly approaching the monster from behind that they’d made a long round-about journey to get a good shot in from the back whilst the demented dog kept it distracted. Jack quickly remembered that Sleipnir was a war horse. He wasn’t as intelligent, say, as an Asgardian or a human or a Frost Giant, but he was certainly an animal who knew that to down an enemy you needed to hit its weak spot.

Sleipnir ran under it, confusing it, the horse fast and the beast slow, swaying it dangerously as it tried to understand what was happening beneath its feet. Jack backed him from the air, confusing the creature further as it tried to simultaneously swipe upwards as it was hit hard with icicles and lightning ice, whilst down south a great bloody horse was attempting to throw the feet from under it.

Fenrir, clinging on to its tusks and kicking at its face, was at the forefront of the monster’s ire. It managed to kick Sleipnir away, the horse veering off for its own safety and taking a moment to recalculate, and started ignoring Jack completely; its hide could take whatever the winter spirit could dole out for it, being born on the ice planet itself.

“Hey!” Jack tried to call out, smacking at it with whatever trick he hadn’t tried, but it all failed in the face of Fenrir stabbing at its eye with a sharp blade of ice.

It roared, rearing back and throwing Fenrir from it, and Sleipnir took the moment to get underneath it again. Jack gathered up as much energy as he could muster, feeling snow swirl in the pit of his stomach, before blasting it through his staff in the beast’s direction. Still swaying as Sleipnir used as many legs as he could spare (of which there were many) to keep it unbalanced, the blast of snow and cold and wind swept it onto its side.

Fenrir had collapsed on the hard ground but was now up and shaking his head to clear it. The sharp piece of ice had shattered upon impact, parts of it imbedded into Fenrir’s arm, but he paid it no mind. His face was the picture of a monster, Jack realised, as it approached the beast’s stomach and sliced it open.

It was an automatic reaction for Jack; darting higher up into the sky when he felt afraid or alone or threatened. He put distance between the ground and himself, filling the gap with air that no foe or fear could pursue him through.

Watching his brother reached into a screaming monster and come back out with a heart in his hand certainly made Jack waver with fright and drift ever higher in the sky. He knew Fenrir wouldn’t hurt him as well as he knew that beast would have killed them all in an instant if it could, but that didn’t make its execution easier to watch.

It had fallen still now, and Jack started to drift down to the ground as Fenrir threw the dead heart on the ground – the thing was bigger than his head – and started off in the direction they came.

Jack tried to shake himself, because he’d seen Fenrir do much the same to others – the Chitauri sprung quickly to mind – yet he had not felt so wary then. He supposed it had been the animalistic nature of the slaughter, and the fact Fenrir had been utterly consumed by the wolf he had been for so long.

After many long minutes walking in deathly silence, Jack worked up the courage to speak. He said, “You’re blue.”

Fenrir paused, looking down at himself, which was coated in the dark blood of the monster. He swiped at it for a moment, before licking it away from his hand, frowning at the pale alien colour he discovered underneath.

“It’s nice.” Jack admitted, a little awkwardly. It suited him. He didn’t have hair, but his scar had taken on a different shade, dark against his pale blue face, and it made him look even more dangerous. His eyes had changed from venomous yellow to the same red Jörmungandr had favoured. He looked impossibly like his brother in many ways, and abstractly like his father.

But the colour was starting to fade and the dark smattering of hair returned, messy around his face which he swiped at with an impatient, sticky hand. He scowled as Jack leaned closer to inspect the transformation, whilst Sleipnir nudged at him with his nose, curious about the magic tingling over Fenrir’s skin.

“Hey, are your teeth a little sharper?” Jack asked.

“What of my hand?” Fenrir pointed out instead, priorities a little different, displaying the entended talons which had appeared from them. “These are the claws of my wolf form.” When he swiped at the air, Jack swore he heard it slice in two.

“Whoa. Sharp.” He almost reached out to touch, like Princess Aurora seeing the needle on the spinning wheel, before Fenrir snatched his hand away – the whistling of the wind tearing at its seams around his impossibly pointed fingertips followed his movement.

“Stupidity certainly becomes you, Jack.” He snapped.

“It’s a gift.”

Fenrir explained, gesturing to the small changes in his usual physiology: “It must be my magic. Hel told me my eyes had changed due to stressful situations, and I had reached out for some comfort or strength.”

“So that happened now, too? You thought you were going to die so your magic managed to reach you?”

“Perhaps it truly is not as truly extinguished as Odin would have liked.”

“Then where is it?”

“Just out of reach, perhaps.” Fenrir said. “Maybe floating above our heads.” He reached up with his clawed hand, and Jack pushed it back down again.

“You’ll need to file your nails or something, because those talons practically grinning at my throat. You don’t want to accidentally destroy your magic if it _is_ floating over you like a little raincloud, do you?”

“You can’t destroy magic. You cannot even transform it should the wielder still live.”

Jack paused, catching some deeper meaning behind those words. Fenrir, as usual, was too grumpy to contemplate much further outside of his own little bubble of misery. His loss of magic blinded him to the apparent lack of logic behind _losing_ his magic. “You’re the wielder, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then your magic is out there somewhere, yeah?”

Fenrir caught on quickly, rolling his eyes. “It would be impossible to track down. It is _magic_. It is not visible to the senses, even to those as gifted as Heimdall or Sleipnir.”

“You mean like Tony Stark couldn’t track down Loki, or separate one magic from another, or figure out what Jör’s bead was?” Jack said, enjoying the long, blank look which overcame Fenrir’s face.

Finally the wolf said, “Oh.”

Jack nodded, laughing loudly. “Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comments are lovely thank you


	33. Bedside Manner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments guys! I really appreciate it.

In any other circumstances, perhaps Fenrir and Nick Fury would have been friends. As it was however, the head of SHIELD and the vengeful Lokison were doomed to be at odds. Especially when Fenrir refused to back down after Fury had already told him _no_.

The second portal Hel had opened to let the brothers free of Jötunheim had resulted in no more serious injuries, but had dropped the two Lokisons headfirst into Fury’s war room. She had been right to aim them there, and Jack appreciated her forethought, though would have preferred to have let Fenrir speak to her first. His hand was in a state that doctors on Earth were not equipped to deal with.

Since they’d been gone things had escalated quickly. The attack on humanity’s children, before isolated to only those six specific areas of the planet, had spread like wild-fire into neighbouring towns and cities. SHIELD had pulled all their resources to keep everything as quiet as they could, but were failing to keep everything under wraps.

“For fucks sake, Lokison!” Fury barked, forced to press himself against the controls as Fenrir stop restraining the enormous beast of a horse he still had with him. “Will you get that damn animal out of here?”

“We can get my magic back.” Fenrir insisted upon the general instead of replying, because having a magician on their side would prove a useful resource in a war against aliens armed with magical artefacts.

“I’m sorry,” Fury replied, voice harsh with sarcasm. “Does it look like we can go on a rampant quest across realms on the lookout for something as non-descript as your puff of magic?” Fury barked.

“I assume you mean like what I wasted two days on, almost dying twice and losing my hand for?” The wolf snarled, pushing at Sleipnir who was getting antsy in reaction to his brother’s agitation, whilst Fenrir displayed his injury in all its gory details to the entirety of SHIELD’s workforce.

“Yes.” Fury returned, not blinking an eye. “And you failed. It was worth a shot, but that was when we thought we had time. We _don’t_ have time anymore, and you throwing a hissy-fit because you got injured will not save your brother. You can get back your magic, but what is it going to do for us then? Can you use it like your father? No? What use do I have of a boy who doesn’t even know how to utilise his assets? Oh sure, break something, see whether that’ll change my mind.”

Fenrir reined in his temper, but couldn’t keep the hatred out of his eyes. Fury had a power over him which he had to bow to. The one-eyed human was the force behind the team who were attempting to return the children’s souls and, in turn, bring Jörmungandr back. Fury was using this to his advantage; twisting every order Fenrir could have fought him on into a suggestion that hindering him would mean the permanent loss of Fenrir’s brother.

Even though the wolf knew he was being manipulated, he couldn’t risk it being true. So he had to back down with only minimal fuss, as if those few minutes wasted in an argument would ultimately mean the failure of the mission.

Jack, invisible to the mortal, sent an angry gust of snow and ice his way. Fury snarled.

“Forget the damn horse, do something about your imp.” He snapped as Fenrir started smiling horribly. Fury scoffed. “Fine. Go get your magic back. We’ll even help you. But why don’t you take a moment to look at the bigger picture: your magic is, as you told me, untouchable to anyone else. It’s safe. What we’re gonna do, therefore, is focus on keeping everyone alive _right now_ and get your hocus-pocus back to you when this is all over and no one is _dying_. So why don’t you go sit by your brother and hold his hand whilst I do some _real_ work?”

Fenrir, unable to do anything else, even stumped for words, stormed out. If he had been anyone else, his father, his sister, his brother, he might have had a snappy comeback. But even if he did, Jack considered, there was a little chance he’d utilise it. There was a lot he was willing to do for Jörmungandr, as was becoming very clear in the light of losing him, and if one of those things included letting Fury have the last word then it was a small price to pay.

Jack didn’t immediately follow as Sleipnir did. He allowed the snow to gather at the ceiling of the room and began to let it slowly drift downwards. It was cold and uncomfortable and Fury wasn’t allowed to show any weakness towards it in front of his underlings, but it wasn’t damaging. Jack had seen CCTV footage of the last time _someone_ had messed with the helicarrier’s computers.

He left afterwards, flying quickly towards the ward which was housing the original soulless children and the one afflicted adult, all of whom needed intensive care and attention from personal medical professionals.

Jack found his older brother sitting besides Jörmungandr, who lay pale and fragile beneath the white sheets. Fenrir held his hand with his only whole one, his touch gentle as if any force would snap his brother’s fingers in half. If he wasn’t careful with those nails, Fenrir could certainly _slice_ them in half.

The Spirit of Winter stood off to the side for a long moment, watching his siblings with sorrow, before moving his gaze around the room towards the occupied beds.

The children were very still as they lay there, almost unrecognisable with sunken faces and blank, closed eyes. Most of them had been forced closed when they stopped automatically blinking. Jack realised they were running out of time.

“How long does it take for a soulless body to stop working completely?” He asked Fenrir, who looked up for the first time to assess the children. “They haven’t been here that long.” He reminded the wolf, who sighed heavily, moving his hand to the crown of Jörmungandr’s head.

“I wish I knew. Unfortunately I know as much as the mortals here do. All I can tell you is that the body can survive without the soul, but only in theory. Eventually it too will stop. Apparently quicker than we can deal with.”

“We have over two hundred and fifty children affected.” Jack said, feeling the numbers like a blow to the gut. “Will they die?”

“If we do not find a way to reverse the soul gem, certainly.” He was looking to his brother, the orange-haired man more important to him than the children. As a Guardian, Jack wanted to rave at him for it; for prioritising one man over hundreds of innocent children. But as a boy who had been alone for three hundred years, who had longed for a family, who had finally found them and lost them just as quickly, it wasn’t a rage that he could maintain. Fenrir was not a human nor was he ever raised as one, and so it seemed a little strange that Jack would attempt to project human emotions to him.

He kept quiet instead, though he had to breathe deeply to calm the last of his temper, exhaling a burst of icy wind which glittered before disappearing.

He spun, realising there was a member missing from their company. “Where’s Sleipnir?”

“He became excited with the snow, so I let him out to frolic.”

“I can’t imagine him frolicking.” Jack admitted. “It’s probably going to end in property damage.”

Jack’s eyes caught sight of the door where he had last seen Pippa and Sophie only a few days ago. He excused himself quietly, Fenrir too preoccupied to notice as he slipped away.

Jack realised, then, how early it was in the morning. He had lost track, travelling through realms and dealing with men and women who worked around the clock. Fury probably never slept. Hill certainly didn’t, at least as far as Jack had seen. The woman was practically super-human.

The girls, however, were still tucked up in their beds, Sophie peacefully lying on her back with her mouth hanging open, kicking in her sleep. Pippa, on the other hand, was curled up tightly, clutching at her pillow. Her face was scrunched up, as if fitfully, but a touch of Sandy’s dreamsand, apparently more in tune to those who were not yet out of his reach, gently soothed her back into a calmer dream.

Jack made an intricate snowflake pattern on the window, before leaving a Christmas tree made of ice on the table between them. It would gleam when they opened the curtains, as if someone had switched on the fairy lights.

He left again after watching them for a while, smiling, aware it was sadness that was niggling at him. Jack Frost, the Guardian of Fun, didn’t do well with worry or misery, so he left quickly before realising that he was once again standing in the midst of something more tragic than in the middle of two sleeping girls.

Thor was waiting at the doorway from the bustling helicarrier corridor when he came back in, staring out at the beds before turning to Jack. He seemed hesitant to come in, blue eyes twitching between the fading children and the nephew which sat by his soul-stolen brother. Fenrir had his back to him, shoulders slump and gaze resolute on Jörmungandr’s apparent sleeping face.

Jack didn’t invite Thor in, but he didn’t need to. With Jack present, the god managed to work up the courage to face what was left of his family, of his own brother, and came to rest on the opposite side of Jörmungandr’s bed.

“He remains the same,” Fenrir answered when Thor asked after the snake’s condition. “Stable, at least for now. Unfortunately the doctor seeing to him informed me that due to Jörmungandr’s already insubstantial weight, he may start deteriorating much quicker than the children.”

“What of his heritage?” Thor wondered. “He is much stronger than any mortal child.”

“Irrelevant without his magic. Ours were not bodies designed to live without magic, as no Frost Giant is. The circumstances of our birth may turn out to be our undoing.”

“Can’t worry about it yet,” Jack intervened, always the optimist. “We’ve got plenty of time. The things that medicine can do to keep a body going nowadays will blow your mind.”

Thor smiled brightly, finally asking after their trip to Jötunheim. “You look as if you have emerged from the wars, Fenrir.”

“It yielded no results. A pointless mission.”

“We didn’t even see a native.” Jack inserted, somewhat moodily. He had never seen a full-sized Frost Giant, and felt like an experience he was missing out on. He wouldn’t even have been worried about the repercussions as Fenrir was, since the power Jötunheim instilled in his immortal body made him feel like he could take on the entire universe and still come out the victor. He had yet to come down from that illusion of invincibility, even when returning through Hel’s portal straight back to home sweet Earth and feeling the power sap from his fingertips.

Thor was now frowning at them, staring particularly hard at Fenrir’s hand.

“What did you fight, then?”

Fenrir didn’t know, but tried to explain. “It was like a troll, but enormous. A bilgesnipe, perhaps?”

“Massive!” Jack said, jumping up and throwing ice around to indicate a scale, coming out with a surprisingly accurate rendition of the creature they had fought. He stepped back, impressed with himself. It was similar to the bunny he had created to bounce through Jamie’s room all those months ago, but butt-ugly and a hundred times the size. He had never made anything that big that effortlessly.

“Huh.” He said.

“The monsters of Jötunheim are similar to but are not bilgesnipes,” Thor laughed, clapping his nephew around his great shoulders. “I am impressed that you fought one of these great beasts! Was it this which took your hand?”

“No, that was your guards,” Fenrir snarled, slicing the air in two as he pointed his claw at Thor’s face. Thor only just managed to step back in time to keep the tip of his nose securely attached to the rest of him.

“Týr?”

“Heimdall sent him after us when he realised that we were on Asgard.”

“Intense bloke, that Týr,” Jack mused. “I don’t think he wanted to let us leave peacefully.”

“It is a relief to see that you escaped, however.” Thor said sincerely.

Jack nodded avidly, smiling broadly as he let the beast melt away into wisps of cold air. “You should have seen Fenrir. He saved all our asses. He opened a portal with his _bare_ hands.”

“That’s impossible!” Thor exclaimed, but he was wide eyed and admiring as he said it, not dismissive.

“It’s really not. Not for him, anyway.” Jack returned, jumping with excitement at the recollection, finding humour in Fenrir’s sourness. The wolf had curled his hand to his chest, incapable of handling the positive attention even when he had stood tall against Fury’s snide manipulation.

“Do you both not have other places to be?” He snapped, glaring first at his uncle. “Is there not a realm in the universe that needs saving? Or you – it is snowing outside. Why are you still here when you could be terrorising innocents?”

Thor laughed suddenly, stating: “I have seen Sleipnir outside. He seems intent to scare the humans enough for all of us.”

The atmosphere, understandably tense in such a suffocating environment, was at least lighted by a sense of family and humour and togetherness. The world, Jack knew, was probably ending. But that didn’t mean they had to stop laughing. The sun was soon to rise, Fenrir was trying to hide a smile, and there was an eight-legged Lokison dancing in the snow. There was beauty in the little things.

It was interrupted, however, by the click of heels on the metal floor and the sharp knock on the open door.

“Cap wants to see you, Thunderbird,” Tony said, eyes lingering on the bed between the two men he could see, Jack invisible to his mortal eyes. Thor nodded, hand patting at Fenrir’s back gently as he moved to leave, and taking with him the slightly optimistic air that had briefly lightened their hearts.

“Love the nails, Fenrir,” Tony said as soon as he had replaced Thor at Jörmungandr’s bedside. He lounged there as if he had all the time in the world. “Can I have the name of your manicurist?”

“What are you doing here, Stark?”

“Just came to run some tests,” the man replied, shaking his transparent Stark phone with a dangerous carelessness. “The good doctor Banner has finally been roped into helping us figure this out, an attack of a moral conscience or something, so hopefully we’ll figure something out sooner rather than later.”

“’ _Figure something out_ ’?” Fenrir echoed blankly. “You realise this is not a puzzle, mortal? Their souls have been stolen.”

“Yeah, see, that’s great and all, but it’s an explanation that first and foremost necessitates the existence of a soul. Like god and reincarnation, I’m hesitant to accept something if both the effect and explanation are impossible to observe.”

Fenrir gestured pointedly to the seemingly endless row of bodies, all completely vacated of life and slowly what was left of life was sapping out of them too.

Tony scoffed. “I’m not arguing that _something_ isn’t going on, but they just seem to be slowly turning brain-dead, which means looking for an explanation of _why_ that’s happening.”

“You return their souls to them in time and you will see them revive.”

“Are you telling me brain-dead people have actually just lost their souls?”

“Yes.”

Stark paused for a moment, considering this. Finally he admitted, “Well, I guess _metaphorically_ -“

“No,” Fenrir corrected sharply. “Literally. My brother’s soul has been taken, and I will get it back.”

“I don’t doubt you,” Tony shrugged.

“You just doubt my beliefs. I assure you Stark, mine are based in facts as much as any your science. More so, in fact. Where you mortals have your theories, we have thousands of years of knowledge. You are only just catching up with _me_ , and I was never even taught to read.”

Tony didn’t like this, sitting very still and staring very coldly away from Fenrir’s yellow glare. His look softened when it transferred to Jörmungandr, silent and stiff. He said, voice strained, as if trying ti distil the tension: “Have you seen the snow? I realise it’s December, but since when is it ever a white Christmas?”

Jack nudged his brother significantly. “He’s not here to run tests.” Because, despite what the inventor had claimed, he had flashed his machine once and not touched it since.

“Do you love him?” Fenrir suddenly asked, looking between Tony Stark and Jörmungandr, startling the human and spirit of winter alike.

“Whoa, what?” Jack asked, at the same time that Tony exclaimed much to the same effect. Fenrir didn’t back down until the Iron Avenger answered him.

“No,” Tony said, an edge of steel lining his tone. “You’re reading too much into this.”

“Then why are you here if you are not here to either mourn or experiment?”

The mortal didn’t have an immediate answer, still staring at Jörmungandr as if he would awaken and save Tony from the situation he had found himself landing in, but Fenrir’s impatient growl made the inventor throw up his hands in surrender, making the man defensive.

“I knew him, alright? I knew him.” This didn’t appease the wolf, and Tony felt forced to continue: “I’ve lost people before – family, friends, whatever. But since all this craziness started, since I became Iron Man, it’s like mortality became relative. Everyone dies, but no one _stays_ that way. And, you know, considering you guys are the sons of _Loki_ and the fact you keep on walking in and out of impossible situations and surviving, I thought he would too.”

“So?” Fenrir pushed, because it hadn’t answered his question, not completely.

“I knew him.” He repeated. “I got to know him and I liked him. I haven’t _properly_ lost someone I’ve liked since Obi.”

Neither Jack nor Fenrir knew who ‘Obi’ was, but they didn’t bother to press when Tony looked like he was about to break into meltdown. The human himself, usually chipper or at least sarcastic to hide any uncomfortable emotions, recognised this in himself too, standing up and turning to leave.

Fenrir would not drop his brother’s hand for anything short of an emergency, so instead flung his injured arm straight into Iron Man’s path. The mortal man only stopped due to shock and disgust, sharply pulling short to not impact the red-wrapped stump.

Turning to Fenrir, the wolf told him: “If you truly wish to help us, then help _me_.”

Tony tutted, shaking his head and producing a weak, knowing smile. “See, Mr One-Eyed And Grumpy up on the control deck said that you’d try to manipulate something out of me.”

“I am not my father, nor my brother. Manipulation does not come so easily to me.”

“And yet you’re trying to turn my guilt against me,” Tony pointed out. “Good on you, Lokison, you’re certainly living up to your name.”

“Stark,” Fenrir said, voice imploring. “Please.”

Tony’s attention drifted for a moment, exacerbated and glancing towards the door as if judging how fast he could get away. Then his eyes resettled on Jörmungandr.

Fenrir said, “We haven’t lost him yet.”

Tony sighed, nodded, stepped back. Grudgingly, he muttered, “I’ll see what I can do.”

The tenseness left the strict lines of Fenrir’s shoulders, and his eyes became a little less threatening. “Thank you, Stark.”

“No promises.” The human called back as he started for the door, but instead of gracefully leaving as he had planned, the man was thrown to the ground when the entire helicarrier jolted. Fenrir instinctively flattened himself over the more vulnerable body of his red-haired brother, whilst Jack had jumped straight into the air, catching and righting any children who almost rolled from their beds.

“What was that?”

Jack didn’t stick around to listen to any theories, heading towards the room in which Pippa and Sophie had been sleeping. Whilst the soulless children had not been disturbed, the same could not be said for the little girls.

“Are you alright?” He asked. Both were now awake and shaking. Pippa had moved over to Sophie’s bed, wrapping her arms around the smaller child.

“We’re alright, Jack,” She confirmed, and Jack breathed out in relief.

“You two stay safe. A nurse’ll be here soon I bet. I’ll go find out what just happened.”

Jack followed Fenrir and Tony as they ran down the corridors towards the control room, both of them immediately demanding answers from an already irate Nick Fury.

They weren’t the only ones. On the work floor, the computers were flashing madly and agents were bustling to and fro, yelling out data, snapping at each other, experts being called in and told to shove their _“That’s impossible!”_ s up their goddamn asses.

The Avengers were on the mezzanine with Fury, also staring and frowning at data. Captain America addressed the newcomers when Fury looked about ready to resort to murder, distracting their attention by pointing at a white screen.

“What am I looking at?” Stark asked.

“That’s outside.”

“What? Right now?” They turned to where the windows usually were, and saw that they too were completely blank. “I just thought they’d been closed.”

“Is that the snow?” Fenrir asked, and Captain America nodded.

“Hey, isn’t your invisible brother sorta in charge of this kind of thing?” Tony said. “’Jack Frost bringing the winter’ and all that jazz.”

Fenrir looked to his younger sibling, who shrugged nonchalantly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Sleipnir.” Fenrir suddenly remembered, running for the exit as Jack quickly following after. When they reached the door which would allow them to access to the impossibly strong blizzard outside, they were blocked by Coulson, a serious-faced level seven agent who was calm and authoritative as he barred their way.

“No way are we letting anyone out.” He said. “The weather’s been fluctuating madly for hours now, and it’s too dangerous to risk any personnel.”

“You left him out there?” The wolf accused, increasingly incensed when the mortal didn’t deign to cow away from his snarl.

“We had to vacate, but we couldn’t get the horse to follow us.”

“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?” Fenrir growled, physically pushing away the SHIELD agent and stomping out into the blizzard. Sleipnir wasn’t far from the entrance, almost knocking his brothers over as they searched for him.

Fenrir shouted at Jack whilst trying to rein in Sleipnir, demanding that the stop thrashing and the spirit figure out how to calm the weather.

Jack concentrated for a long moment, clenching his eyes shut, preparing for a long battle of wills between the natural weather and his own power, but was greeted with silence that eclipsed the previous howling winds, the lack of noise ringing almost as loud in their ears as the blizzard had.  

“So it _was_ me?” He asked whilst Fenrir clung onto Sleipnir’s neck. The weather wouldn’t settle that quickly if it hadn’t been; the natural forces of the world rarely liking an intervention. Only his own weather stopped and started with such ease. However, he had never managed something that had whited out the entire sky. He hadn’t thought he _could_.

But there had been the power on Jötunheim… a measure of strength unlike anything Jack had ever experienced. But surely he couldn’t still reach it now when he was on Earth, which was about as away from the magical realm as he could be in the entire universe.

“This creature needs a saddle and a bit.” Fenrir snarled, pushing at the giant horse until he obeyed the wolf’s instruction. Jack, meanwhile, was looking at the damage done unto the Helicarrier hanger. “Jack, are you coming?”

“No.” The spirit replied, and Fenrir stopped, turning to look to his brother.

“No?”

“No.”

Fenrir paused for a long moment, batting at Sleipnir when he started nudging him from behind. “Then what are you going to do?”

“I did this.” Jack said, pointing to the destruction of the hanger, and everything that had either been irreparably damaged or completely obliterated.

“Yes,” Fenrir allowed, stepping closer. “What of it?”

“I didn’t even realise. How could I do this without realising?”

“How does it usually work? Is your control of the weather conscious?”

“Yes,” Jack said quickly, before correcting himself. “Well, no. Not always. I think it snows when I’m upset. Or when I’m happy, too.”

“How have you been feeling today?” Fenrir asked, though he didn’t need an answer. His hand landed heavily on Jack’s shoulder, and Jack leaned back against Fenrir’s strong torso. The touch slackened his brother’s fingers, surprised, before he tightened the grip again.

“Perhaps we should relocate. Away from this floating fortress full of breakables.”

“You mean people?”

“Breakables.”

Jack was all for this plan when Fenrir pointed in a particular direction. He started to lift up higher into the air, going from leaning heavily on his brother to dangling gladly in the air, before holding out a hand for the wolf.

“No.” Fenrir said, flat and inarguable.

“Then how are you getting to the North Pole?”

“Haven’t you heard?” He said slyly, gesturing to the horse that was still pushing at his shoulder, as if he could make the snow come back. “This is the swiftest animal in the universe.”

“A race?” Jack grinned, eager to make a bet, happy to shift the direction of his powers from accidental destruction into a productive challenge.

“Do not bet on impossible odds, sparrow.”

“You two are my older brothers. You _have_ to let me win.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever. It’s written.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.” Fenrir barked out, face happy even when a smile didn’t quite make it up his cheeks. That was alright. Jack was grinning enough for both of them, suddenly shooting off before he got a chance to see Sleipnir in action.

He looked back somewhere over the North Atlantic, but couldn’t see them. He shook his head, unable to believe that a horse would beat him all the way to the North Pole, no matter how old or magic-endowed.

The journey to the North Pole was a familiar one, and not something the winter spirit had to put a lot of thought into. He surprised himself, however, when he realised how close he was to North’s home and how fast he had made it. He breathed in deeply, feeling the winter swirl in his lungs, and may have spent a while contemplating the extent of his apparently stretched powers, when he spotted a figure leaning against a large dark blob by North’s entrance.

“Cheating!” Jack harked upon landing heavily staff-first, and Fenrir shrugged, a kinder expression returning to his face the more he stepped away from the SHIELD jet.

“General Fury kindly offered us a very fast means of transportation when we offered to move you away from his monstrous flying contraption.”

“’I can’t manipulate,’ he says, ‘I’m not my father.’” Jack grouched. “Alright, you won, even if you did cheat. What do you want?”

“A better way of moving across this realm.” Fenrir admitted. “One that does not involve flight in any manner. Jörmungandr might find it enjoyable, but then he’s…”

“Unstable?” Jack completed, not unkindly. Fenrir nodded, unable to reply as the jet lifted off and abandoned them. Immediately after, North was upon them, having burst out of his front doors with his arms wide open. Behind him followed the whole motley crew; the Guardians, all looking like they could do with a long nap, yet still smiling at Jack’s return.

“You’re alright!” North yelled, pulling Jack up into a bone-crushing hug, lifting the boy straight off the ground. Fenrir frowned, but didn’t say anything, unable to see his host but at least recognising that he was there.

Bunny spared a distrustful moment staring at the giant horse several feet away, who was delighted to be back in the snow. North didn’t even glance twice at it.

“Where’s the over-grown snake?” Bunny asked instead, and Tooth eagerly added: “Where’s his pointy teeth?”

And suddenly Jack was thankful that Fenrir could not perceive his friends. He was let down on the floor again when he didn’t immediately answer, transferring almost all his weight to his staff, shaking his head when their face darkened with understanding.

“I’m sorry,” North said sadly, and Sandman reached up to touch him lightly on the leg. Jack waved them all off.

“It’s okay. We just needed to get away. Something’s happened with my powers and we don’t know what.”

“What do you mean ‘something happened’?” Bunny asked. Jack waved his staff in demonstration. Fenrir snarled at him when he cracked out of the ice that had been sent his way, freezing the wolf inside of it.

The Guardians paused for a long time, staring, whilst Fenrir cursed bitterly in what Jack assumed was Asgardian, kicking his feet free of their cold prison.

“You couldn’t always do that, could you?” Bunny said.

“No. At least, not at that scale. Now I think I could do that to all of you, Sleipnir and Fenrir, and the entirety of North’s grotto if I felt like it. I mean, I don’t know for sure, it’s not like I’ve _tried_ anything that big yet-“

“And nor, I think, will you ever.” North said loudly, interrupting him before the mischievous spirit started to get ideas. “Perhaps it is good idea to talk inside. There is a storm coming.”

“That’s probably me.” Jack said looking out to the black clouds heading their way, disliking the fact it seemed he had to concentrate to _stop_ the weather rather than start it. “Is the workshop going to be able to withstand it?”

“This is the North Pole, Jack!” The jolly man exclaimed without any hesitation, ushering his guests, including the reluctant horse, into his home. “It has seen worse than a little blizzard. _You_ have done worse!”

Jack wanted to argue, but he had spent three-hundred years trying to get in, and in that time he had been forced to get imaginative.

Inside was warm, not particularly to the taste of any of the Lokisons, but the workshop was completely alive with activity of the little elves, scampering around and getting underfoot as yetis tried to actually work. There was now a countdown until Christmas, an underlying fear as children were being stolen, but what stayed was the usual electric attitude of determination. _The show must go on_ , as they said.

North started to usher them all through a side door into a room where the group could hear themselves think, whilst Sleipnir was taken away to the stables with the reindeer. The royal steed, on an alien planet in Santa’s Workshop floor at the most hectic time of the year, should have been a little disturbed when being taken from the only things which were familiar to him. Yet, he easily managed to appear as cool and underwhelmed as a prince of Asgard should be wherever he found himself. Not that he should be worried in any situation. He was a vicious and magical war horse with eight incredibly powerful legs. There was little that could touch him without his permission.

As they settled into the private room, the door snapped closed behind him and the room was overtaken by darkness. That black shadows overwhelmed the group of six and plunged them into chill which might have intimidated Jack if he hadn’t been the Spirit of Winter. He ended up rolling his eyes instead, unimpressed at Pitch’s tricks, and waited patiently with the rest of his friends until the Nightmare King stepped out of his homemade gloom and coldly met his eyes.

He said, “I think you and I need to have a little talk, Jack Frost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly: Apologies if that read a little differently. I managed to finish Nano with a somewhat intense 10k in the last four hours, but it means a completely different writing style. I’m trying to readjust to not having to hit a word-count.  
> Secondly: I meant for this to cover a little more ground, because without it the next chapter will either be really really long or split into two, but again NANO IS TO BLAME. It'll probably be the latter, we’ll see how it goes.  
> Erm, I also wanted to say: Jörmungandr seems to be quite popular, and if you remember, he was suffering from nightmares. Well, a good while back, I wrote some of those dreams in a fic and I was wondering if any of you were interested? Also I’ve done some doodles of character designs for Jör and Fenrir and I wanted to know if some of you would like to see them too?  
> Kay that’s all thank you for reading.


	34. Knew I Could Find My Way Back

When the two brothers left the North Pole again, their sister was in the safe company of the Guardians. The protectors of the children of Earth had insisted that she stay with them for her own safety, but were in for a sharp surprise when they realised that Hel was more in danger of Pitch’s admiration than any attack.

The Queen of the Underworld had arrived soon after Jack and Fenrir had, staring hard at the shadow man as he glared her down, not menaced by his hunched shoulders. 

He had said, “You know of it, don’t you?”

“The tear at the edge of space-time?” Hel replied like it was old news, her hands delicately folded over one another, expression carefully blank.

The brothers were now heading towards that tear at the far reaches of the universe, racing over magical pathways which kept them aloft, traversing the secret branches of Yggdrasil and then out into places the tree would not reach, following vague directions of whatever Pitch remembered from his own chase after a _bird_ , of all things, and then trusting Fenrir’s sense of smell and Sleipnir’s multi-dimensional eyes to guide them the rest of the way.

“He can see the magic,” Hel had assured the others, stroking a hand down Sleipnir’s mane, correcting the beads where they had slipped their holding as he’d been prancing. It was an absent habit, one which was shared between the older brother and the younger sister, seen also, though they were not to know this, in their uncle and estranged grandmother. “He will guide you when you cannot.”

There was the sleigh that North had tried to insist they use, a brilliant and inventive way of traversing the places no one had before dared, bolding going where no man had gone before Jack could say, but Sleipnir reared away from it and that was the end of that.

“My own tricks can only take you so far,” Hel said instead, opening up a portal in the centre of the room, swirling and black and menacing. “But I am not a hansom service, and you will do well to remember this.”

“They’re called taxis now, Hel,” Jack winked at her as they left, whilst Fenrir kissed her cheek and drew his fingers through the tips of her hair affectionately. Thankfully.

There was her magic surrounding them now, keeping them safe as well as it could as Sleipnir ran apparently against nothing, Jack floating along beside him. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, Jack had access to a power which he usually could only access on Earth. Hel had explained that too.

“It was your erratic seiðr which drew me here,” she had said, turning away from an agitated Pitch to press her cold ash-grey hand against the shell of Jack’s ear. “You know better than I that such weather is an anomaly in this realm. Child, we shall have to teach you control.”

“We’re on a bit of a tight schedule.”

“How correct you are. Not that I would dare teach you now when your raw, untapped power can be used to our advantage.”

“How is it happening?” Bunny asked, but Jack had to translate for her to hear the question.

“It started in Jötunheim,” Fenrir inserted, showing his own nails which whistled like the _snick_ of a sword as they sliced through the air.

Jack pointed. “How come he turned blue, but didn’t stay like it?”

Hel answered, “Do you feel like you retained the powers that you were granted on Jötunheim?”

Fenrir shook his head, the easy access he had to the Frost Giant lurking beneath his disguise gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“Well, no,” Jack had admitted as well, because he hadn’t been giddy with the strength and freedom as he had been in Jötunheim. “But apparently I _have_. There is no way I could do what I can now if I hadn’t.”

The difference, Hel said, was the semantics between _triggered_ and _unlocked_. Where Fenrir’s powers had been sparked, encouraged by the icy surroundings which had trained his ancestors, Jack’s had burst free of strict confines which had trapped it.

“Fenrir is a magical being, but you are half-human.” Hel had said. “You struggled to reach the power that our father passed down to you before. However Jötunheim is alive with random seiðr, and as the only world in the universe which bred ice from ice, it would be the singular place in which your elemental powers would have become free.”

“How do you know all this?”

“She’s guessing,” Pitch had interrupted, bored. Hel had lifted a finger.

“Educated opinion,” she’d corrected.

Which explained how Jack was remaining airborne, even when the Man in the Moon could not touch him with his magical influence. It wasn’t doing a thing to help his leg, but Jack hadn’t felt the need to land in days, so was refusing to acknowledge it as a problem.

“Can you see anything?” He asked his brother, staring hard ahead of him. Fenrir sniffed the air, but shook his head. Sleipnir continued to gallop determinedly onwards.

“He can, apparently,” Jack pointed out.

“Magic,” Fenrir tutted jealously, clinging tightly onto Sleipnir’s mane as he travelled on his back. The Guardian of Fun had to admit, watching the horse in action, it was easy to be impressed. He really hadn’t seen any animal run as fast as the eight-legged creature.

Hel, at first, had been as reluctant to let her brothers go on this mission as the Guardians had been. The spirits had been concerned about Jack, only recently returned from an impromptu trip off-world without him even consulting them, and now he was planning on doing it again somewhere that even Pitch was hesitant to go.

Hel’s worry had been more practical. She looked at her older brother, from his hand to his scarred face, and said: “You are in no state to fight.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“You are exhausted, Fenrir, and seriously wounded. You may remain stronger and more resilient than a mortal, but do not forget that you are no longer capable of sustaining such grievous injuries.”

“Then heal me.”

“I am not trained in healing magic. There is not a soul in my realm who needs such aid.”

“Do _something_.”

“What would you suggest?”

“I am not a sorcerer, sister,” he had growled, low and hideous, until Hel had unwrapped his wounded hand and allowed gentle green magic to consume it. Fenrir hissed, jolted, and Jack almost swiped her away from him with a burst of ice and wind when it seemed like she was causing the wolf only more pain.

Bunny had held him back, anticipating his abrupt movements, whilst Pitch watched on, silent and amused. Jack had turned to him, pointed his staff, glad when Pitch winced away from it. He was as worried about Jack’s increase in strength as everyone else was, except, it seemed, Fenrir, who just thought they were all wasting time.

“How do _you_ know about the rip?” He said, keeping the hook of his staff aimed at Pitch’s dusty face whilst he hovered a foot of the ground.

“I am not of this world, nor of that tree,” Pitch spat back, offended that Jack would have to ask. “I am a child of the universe.”

“Because _that_ answers my question,” the Winter Spirit snapped impatiently, and with it the room plummeted by ten degrees. North sharply said his name whilst Bunny began to swear.

“Perhaps it would be wise Hel revise her plan on when she intends to have you collared.” Pitch said, and this time it was Fenrir who snarled in warning.

Hel was there to defuse the situation, coolly inserting her voice into the hostile atmosphere. “You said followed a bird?”

“They were on the Isle of Lyngvi,” Pitch informed them, whilst the children of Loki shared a significant look.

“Why are you telling us this?” Tooth asked suspiciously, fluttering close to Pitch’s face, not liking how much information he was freely offering without even a mention of a catch.

“Why should we trust you?” Jack backed the fairy up, leaning closer to the sneering Nightmare King.

“You shouldn’t.” Pitch reminded them darkly.

“Because he’s scared, Jackson,” Hel interrupted, coming to stand by her brother, her overwhelming height still equal to Jack as he hovered in the air, made to seem even more imposing by her layers of gowns and draperies and silks. “He does not wish to admit it, but what he saw there frightened him.”

“I will admit it,” Pitch growled, reacting to her jibes like a child contradicting their parent. “I would prefer to allow others to deal with the problem.”

“You said you wanted to be a neutral,” North boomed, joining them in the line, narrowing his eyes and crossing his tattooed arms over his broad chest. “Yet you come to us with information?”

“There is no chance you will win,” he had hissed, voice gravelly with indignation. “But I have no choice but to take sides.”

They hadn’t managed to get the _why_ out of Pitch, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed and mute, but they had gotten some hint that it was before most of their time. Pitch’s eyes had slid to Sandy, but the Guardian of Dreams had no idea what he was trying to imply.

“You know, saving the world would be a lot easier if everyone stopped being cryptic,” Jack had complained.

Now he had other things to complain about, because he might love Fenrir a whole heap, what with the wolf being his protective older brother, but that didn’t mean he was necessarily good company for extended periods, and they had been stuck together for days. Where Jack was getting twitchy with boredom, Fenrir was becoming more irate as any peace he managed to find was instantly shattered by his flighty fidgeting brother. How he’d managed to stay calm around Jörmungandr was a mystery, but then Jack remembered that they really hadn’t shared that much time together.

Any attempts at miserable musing was quickly interrupted as Fenrir yelped and Sleipnir gained speed.

Jack put a bit more effort into his own flight too, but realised with a mounting awe that he was struggling to keep up with the fastest creature in the universe. Really, as he grabbed onto Fenrir’s shoulder before the two older Lokisons could escape his reach, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Jack clung onto his older brother’s back as they hurtled through darkness at unimaginable speeds, allowing Sleipnir to set his own course, trusting that the horse would keep their direction true.

As they continued on, the two humanoid Lokisons began recognising that they were on a path of collision without a plan, so Fenrir grabbed at Sleipnir, yelled, until the horse was forced to choose between stopping or the wolf’s claws burying themselves in his throat. Fenrir didn’t mess around when it came to threats, ignoring Jack when he hit him for his cruelty.

Pitch had said: “There is a rip in time, out in space, away from Yggdrasil and all the worlds connected on it. There, you will find the answers you seek.” And they could see it now, looming like someone had ripped away the universe shade of wallpaper to reveal what was lurking beneath.

The brothers didn’t know what they were going to find on the other side, so making any sort of plan was pointless. However, the moment they took to catch their breaths and look to each other, safe, possibly for the last time, was very much worth it.

“Once more unto the breach?” Jack eventually asked.

“Is this quite the time?”

“What, so there’s not a giant hole in front of us that we want to shut?”

Fenrir hummed begrudgingly in agreement.

As they got closer, Jack once again floating by Fenrir’s shoulder whilst the wolf nudged at Sleipnir’s sides, he tried his quote again, more brightly that before: “Or close the wall up with our English dead!”

“I’m not English.”

“Me neither.” Jack considered. “Who are we going to close it up with now?”

“The Asgardians, when they come.”

“ _If_ they come.”

“Would they not?”

“From what I gathered, they’re not exactly reliable. And, you know, after they put me on trial for making it snow I stopped trusting them. Who doesn’t like snow?”

Fenrir grimaced a smile his way, but something in his expression reminded Jack that he’d never even been offered a trial. The wolf brushed it off quickly, however, before Jack could start feeling guilty.

He said, “Thankfully, due Pitch landing a Van in their court, laden with information regarding ourselves, me especially, it is likely that the All-Father’s wrath with chase us when he learns we are on the move.”

“To the end of the universe?”

“If needs be,” Fenrir nodded, taking a steadying breath and turning his steely gaze to the entrance of the rip, leading to whatever was lurking in its unseen depths. “Unto the breach?”

“Well, it’s not going to close itself.” Jack grinned, and Fenrir kicked at Sleipnir’s sides, jolting the horse into a direct canter.

Hel had given them specific instructions to get in and out of the tear quietly, a reconnaissance mission that Pitch had immediately laughed at. Whilst he hadn’t given them any valuable information regarding what they were going to see or how they were going to get back, they at least knew that the Nightmare King didn’t believe they stood a chance. But then, Pitch had never believed a child could defeat his master-plan to envelop the world in fear either, and look where that got him.

He had also ratted them out to Asgard just to make everything harder on the people trying to save the universe, so he wasn’t in Jack’s good books today. Luckily, hopefully, Pitch’s screw-up would provide Jack and Fenrir a way out of the unknown they were slipping into.

Passing through was… _Sticky_ , Fenrir called it, when Jack started pushing at the air like he was wading through water, or running on a beach. Even Sleipnir had difficulty moving, tugging up his hooves as if there was gum on the floor.

Fenrir explained: “We’re in a space pocket. Hel uses them. Jörmungandr hates them. They take a lot of seiðr to produce, and significantly more to maintain. It drains Hel very quickly.”

The implications behind that suggested they were dealing with something of unimaginable power, or at least access to resources which the rest of the universe did not. “The mission is looking hopeful, then.”

Fenrir shot him a look of scorn.

It was dark here, lighted invisibly by, presumably, the magic which was holding the space pocket in place. They landed, Jack hovering by his brother’s shoulder as Fenrir clambered off Sleipnir’s back, both elder Lokisons sniffing suspiciously at the air.

“It’s not seiðr,” Fenrir realised, turning on his younger brother, eyes narrowed. “You’re the only source of magic here.”

“What about you?” But looking once more at Fenrir’s gnarled face and it was as if all magic had been torn away from him once more. His eyes were dark in his face, hazel and human, whilst his uninjured hand, worriedly dancing fingers over the remains of his other, was no longer the weapons they had so recently turned into. The wolf elbowed Sleipnir in the nose when the horse began tossing his head, bashing at Fenrir with every movement.

“I’m defenceless.” He stated blankly, frowning up with concern at his younger brother.

“Don’t go telling me you’re scared, or that it’s all up to me now.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Please don’t say you’re suicidal, either. Homicidal? Vengeful?”

“No more than the norm.” Fenrir admitted, cursing at Sleipnir when the animal started kicking and slamming down anxiously to catch their attention. “What is it, you stupid animal?”

Sleipnir didn’t need to speak to convey a message. He shoved at the other two, pushing them aside and running several paces to the left, nudging at the floor with a front hoof. Jack had never liked horses, but hanging around for three hundred years taught him a thing or two about various body language. Sometimes things transcended species, and Sleipnir suddenly stopping dead only to paw at the ground was much like a lion shimmying its shoulders low, or a human revving the engine.

An alien pounced at Sleipnir before the brothers had time to run to help him, but the horse was a veteran of more wars than Jack had years to his name, and crushed the thing under his feet as he dashed headfirst into an onslaught of raving Chitauri.

At first, it seemed to be manageable – there were some aliens heading their way with their angry-faces on, but even without his claws Fenrir was still stronger. It’d take a bigger swarm to down him. Which was, of course, exactly what came next.

Jack stood at the front, hovering several feet ahead of his brothers, thinning the crowd as Sleipnir remained a terrifying barrier of burning eyes and inconceivable strength. Jack couldn’t quite find the words to explain what he was seeing from his bird’s eye perspective, the sheer destruction the three Lokisons were wreaking as droves of malicious aliens tried and failed to so much as scratch them. He couldn’t say what it was like to observe the perimeter Sleipnir had created – a solid barrier of the Chitauri’s own soldiers who were wising up to the face there was a monster horse ready to beat them into the ground. Even if they got through, they were likewise coming to recognise that Fenrir, mortal and powerless, was nothing to underestimate.

If they were lucky, the Chitauri would be selfish enough to no longer risk themselves, because if they decided to push through then the Lokisons were screwed.

However, though the majority were thinking twice, there were still significant numbers of the enemy who were reckless enough to try their luck.

Jack clenched a hand on his staff, testing to see whether it weighed anything different and almost surprised when it did not. If was still the same old Shepard’s Crook he’d always had, yet now it felt like a deadly weapon. Jack felt that settle uneasily in his stomach as an unfamiliar rage brought forth ice and snow, even without clouds to help. He was the source, he realised, detached as he watched the Chitauri shatter or disappear completely under his attack.

Those who had survived ran in the opposite direction, snarling and screaming, as Jack floated downwards, unable to even smile when his brother said, “Why didn’t you start with that?”

Blankly, he spoke: “I was wondering why there was nothing to guard the entrance. I mean, I know this is a pretty remote location, but not having an alarm was a little suspicious.”

“They do not need one.” Fenrir pointed out dryly, running his hands over Sleipnir’s ribcage, checking him for any injuries.

“Do you think they heard us talking? Should we have been quieter?”

“Your seiðr,” Fenrir reminded him, shaking his head. “It’s like a glint of moonlight in the night.”

“I thought you couldn’t sense magic.”

“Sorcery is a lot more complicated than mere _can_ and _can’t_ , sparrow.” Fenrir said, patting Sleipnir’s thigh, hailing the all-clear. He then turned to Jack with narrow eyes. “Come,” he beckoned, and Jack edged closer to him, feet hovering centimetres off the ground as his brother laid a hand on his forehead.

“I don’t have a temperature,” Jack reminded him. “I’m dead.”

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Jackson-“

“No.” Jack said, shaking his head. “Don’t.”

“It’s snowing.” Fenrir pointed out.

“Yeah, so?”

“There are no clouds.”

Jack jerked his head upwards, blinking at the way the snow seemed to appear in mid-air before disappearing before it even reached Fenrir’s knees. Sleipnir didn’t like it in much the same way the Spirit of Winter didn’t; where Jack had always found joy in snow, there was something about this which itched at his skin. It was unnerving. Jack didn’t notice until Fenrir steadied his shoulders, but he had started to shake.

“You’re scared, are you not? Of the power you now hold?”

“That easy to tell?” Jack attempted to joke, tone falling flat as he felt the snow only worsen. Like the stickiness of the space pocket, the snow felt oily where it hit, though it left no marks. He couldn’t even bring himself to try and stop it, unsure if it’d even work. Where on Jötunheim he felt in control of his own abilities, here he felt as if the truth were the complete opposite: that his abilities had control of him.

“I won’t tell Pitch,” Fenrir assured him with a carefully crafted look of mischief which helped some way to alleviate Jack’s darkening mood.

“Well, anyway I guess it’s _ice_ to meet the natives. Ha, ha, get it?” Jack then tried, taking the philosophy of laugher being the best medicine to heart, half-smile slipping when he saw Fenrir’s eyebrows draw together. “What is it?”

“The Chitauri are not from here.”

“I thought no one knew where they were from. Thor didn’t.”

“Thor has fought many battles, faced thousands of enemies, but had likely never picked up a book if he wasn’t directly ordered to.” Fenrir said meanly.

“You can’t read.” Jack returned, also mean.

“That doesn’t mean I cannot listen. I lived on Asgard for centuries treated as a _mutt_ , sparrow. I heard many things which would not have reached princely ears.”

“Well, where are they from then?”

“Not here.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that. Are we seriously playing the vague game? I don’t like all this cryptic stuff like the rest of you seem to.”

“If they had come from here, we would not know of them _at all_. However, there have been reported instances of the Chitauri over the millennia, even if they are mere rumours. That they appeared so often so recently suggests something is amiss.”

“You mean _other_ than the space pocket we’re currently standing in?”

“Yes.” Fenrir replied. He looked down at the Chitauri by his feet, prodding at them with a flat curiosity. He returned his attention to his brother when Jack brought up a previous issue, only briefly touched upon.

“How come you can suddenly sense my magic? How come _they_ can?” he questioned, pointing the blunt end of his staff towards the bodies littering the ground.

Fenrir licked at his lips, glancing at his nails with his now brown eyes, answering: “’Tis much like my island, here. Lyngvi was, as you recall, as much a void for seiðr as this place is. In my stay, I grew to recognise faint traces of magic, which would shine out brightly for its lack in the air. Usually, a magical signature such as yours would fade into the background noise. Here is it like a screech breaking the silence.”

“So I’m a beacon?” Jack translated, glancing around nervously.

“In this situation, it is not necessarily a bad thing.” Fenrir reminded him, once more anxiously running gentle fingers over his stump of a hand.

“Even if there is a horde headed our way?” Jack wondered, pointing in the direction of Fenrir’s back, to where another group of substantial numbers were headed towards them at a disquieting pace.

The wolf suggested, “Perhaps we should leave.”

“Are they seriously coming back? I thought we’d scared them away.”

“It’s more likely another group,” Fenrir replied, grabbing a handful of Sleipnir’s mane and tugging when the horse didn’t respond to his hints, subtle as they weren’t. The horse was turning towards the mob, ears flicking, reading himself for another fight. He wasn’t afraid, even if his brothers were.

“How many do you think there are?”

Fenrir shook his head, mounting himself on Sleipnir’s back and digging his heels into the horse’s flank. The creature made a loud, protesting noise, trying to tug the two of them towards the approaching battle, but this part of the army was laden with pointy things and neither Fenrir nor Jack felt much up to fighting against those odds. Though they had different motivations for retreating, they both felt everyone would be better served by getting out of here.

“An army’s worth,” Fenrir said, answering his younger brother’s question. “Potentially more than can be handled. They seem to be of a number bigger than any of the battles I have faced.”

“Battles? When have you been in battles?”

“Sparrow, what do you suppose immortal Vikings do with their time?”

“What, so Asgard took you along on their interstellar fights? And you were on their side?”

“I was a giant wolf; an invaluable resource.” Fenrir said as they finally convinced the reluctant Sleipnir to turn tail and head away from anywhere a Chitauri mob had come from or gone to. “And for a long time I did not mind. I believed that it was better this than being abandoned as my sister had been, or my brother.”

“They did alright,” Jack reminded them, and Fenrir nodded.

“I cannot argue that they survived. Hel may be a cold woman, but I do not doubt her convictions, nor her fury. That her realm was invaded has ensured her involvement, but do not assume she is doing it out of kindness for the lost children.”

“And Jör?”

“What about him?” Fenrir said snippily.

“He made it, didn’t he? He seemed happy, anyway.”

Fenrir watched the path ahead of them for a time, in which Jack began to realise he had once again successfully put his foot in his mouth. Jörmungandr and his older brother had not spent a lot of time together after their reunion, because there hadn’t been any time for them to spend before they were once again split apart, but during it they had clicked so quickly that it was almost as if the thousand years apart had never existed. Fenrir understood his brother, apparently more so than Jack did.

Fenrir sadly told his brother: “Jörmungandr was not happy.”

He then held up a hand to indicate to Jack he should drop it immediately. Jack didn’t want to, because the serpent had been his sibling too and Fenrir shouldn’t say stuff like that without explanation, but Fenrir was also a traumatised man, and at times he was a little disturbed. In the end, like retreating at fast pace from the Chitauri, keeping quiet would be better for everyone. At least for now.

Something flew overhead, catching Jack’s attention. Colourful and swift, Jack yelled out in surprise, alerting his brother to it too.

“Hey, those are the birds!” They must be. Jack remembered them from the Island which Fenrir had been held at, and from the look on his brother’s face, he did too.

Fenrir’s emotions were very topsy-turvy. Jack was glad they were related, because otherwise he’d be scared of the wolf’s turbulent mood swings. Little things could trigger Fenrir as easily as the sight of a chain or the faces of those who had betrayed him. Smaller events, such as a flash of brightly coloured wings passing by in the skies, could do it too. His face darkened, eyes almost black with his rage, as he urged Sleipnir faster. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to swipe the animal out of the sky and eat it for lunch.

Behind them, the Chitauri had long since disappeared from sight. Sleipnir was too fast, the Lokisons too wise to stay behind and butt heads for the sake of a fight. Their attentions turned to following the bird, keeping to Pitch’s example, seeing where it went.

The space pocket was bigger than either of them expected, but they should have figured that out when swarms of Chitauri emerged from apparently nowhere. If the space outside of the universe could hide what looked to be an entire race, then it had to be substantially wide.

Fenrir didn’t like it, muttering to himself about energy and what sounded like the Asgardian version of the principles of astrophysics which involved inserting the word ‘magic’ where Midgardians preferred ‘science’. “It’s impossible,” he was saying, but Jack wasn’t putting up with that defeatist attitude.

“What, like pulling open a portal was ‘impossible’, or you reconnecting to even a little bit of your seeder was ‘impossible’?” Jack returned, grinning when Fenrir scowled. They carried on racing forward, Jack fixing his eyes on the landscape whilst Fenrir focused on the bird’s bright plume.

Sleipnir suddenly reared, stopping dead and almost tipping the wolf from his back. Fenrir clung on for a moment before he deemed the aggravated Sleipnir steady enough to clamber down, frowning at the horse and then hitting him as he watched the bird fly away from their sight.

“Stupid creature!” Fenrir raved, throwing up his arms and snarling. “What is wrong with you now? You, who are not scared by an army of monsters yet are terrified half to death by a shadow?”

“Fenrir, shut up!” Jack said, landing on his shoulders to slap a palm over his mouth. The wolf put up a struggle for a moment, before realising that Jack was more than serious. There were footsteps, the clank of armour, and a Chitauri leaped over Sleipnir straight at Fenrir’s face before even the battle-hardened war horse had time to react. Jack shot it away, and it screamed when the ice assaulted its face.

Jack’s heart leapt into his throat, horrified by his own abilities as he drifted away from Fenrir’s shoulders. Sleipnir was kicking again, but the Chitauri were avoiding getting too close, simply circling the brothers in turn, surrounding them, splitting them off from each other.

The one Jack had hit was no longer moving. He hadn’t meant to kill it, only to sweep it away from his brother. That he had killed something in the first place wasn’t nearly as traumatic as _not meaning_ to do it.

There wasn’t that many of them, just enough to pose a threat, and whilst Fenrir seemed like he would be happy to take them all on, dare them to test their mettle against his strength, he was also exhausted and in pain and emotionally unhinged. He was no more fit to fight than Jack was, hovering in the air, clinging to his staff, with not enough self-belief to defend himself or his family.

The first Chitauri to move jumped towards Fenrir, blade in hand, and the wolf reflected the blow but was nicked by his eyebrow for the trouble. He quickly downed the first, snatching the knife from the alien’s grip, before turning to the others. They faltered. They had numbers, but the Lokisons were not to be underestimated. Jack watched, tense with anticipation, as they tried to make up their minds. They tilted their heads strangely, like they were listening for something, and one almost stepped forward again.

It froze, however, when a Chitauri standing on the far side of Sleipnir slump, dropping dead to the floor. Quickly, another two followed, and Jack realised there was someone hiding in the gloom, fighting on their side. It was too dark in Sleipnir’s shadow to see whom, but as they fought, so too did the wolf, the horse happily stomping on enemy heads when prompted.

Soon, the Lokisons were in the green again, safe with a pile of bodies at their feet, and it was then that anyone got a clear view of their saviour.

And wasn’t he a sight for sore eyes. Bright-eyed and tall, red hair falling around his face as he panted with exertion, cheeks widening in a manic grin.

“Jörmungandr,” Fenrir breathed out in disbelief.

The third Lokison took a moment to catch his breath as his brothers gaped, and he ran a long-fingered hand through his hair. When he could, he said: “We have to go,” and started to run again, correctly assuming that his gob-smacked brothers would chase straight after him.

“Jörmungandr!” Fenrir yelled again, but with the sound of more Chitauri closing in from behind them, the snake didn’t stop for pleasantries. To Jack, this was probably for the best, but Fenrir had proven that he believed rationality was something which happened to other people, most especially when his brother was involved.

He reached out and grabbed Jörmungandr by the shoulder, pulling him around and holding him there. The red-head was shaking his head. “Is this really the time?” He asked, sneering with displeasure when Fenrir shook him.

“You cannot be here.”

“Apparently, I can,” The snake returned slowly, delicately, speaking as if Fenrir were a child. He glanced backwards, before settling a stern look upon his older brother’s scarred face. “And I will explain. For now, however, and I mean this very seriously, we _must go_.”

And perhaps it was the sternness in his voice, the surprise of him being there at all, or the fact he’d sounded just like their father, but after that, all three Lokisons followed after their brother without complaint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JOR? YOU’RE OKAY? WHO SAW THIS COMING? =O


	35. ‘Tis I’ll Be Here in Sunshine Or In Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH another wonderful fanmix from HolyGuacomole looking at Jack: http://8tracks.com/iam100percentsugar/the-other-laufeyson  
> One day I’m gonna figure out how to put a link in. Anyway, thank you so much!

They took a moment to catch their breaths behind some crevice made out of an unidentifiable metal. Jack was the only one disturbed by their strange environment, complex and overtly designed rather than naturally formed within the space pocket. However, now was not the time to be concerned over architecture when Fenrir was clinging to the shirt of a body which should not be here.

Jörmungandr, the body in question, didn’t pay any mind to his brother’s touch until they were settled in their safe spot.

“It won’t be secure for long,” the serpent said, looking pointedly at Jack. “You shine bright here, Jackson. We can spare only a few minutes to catch our breaths before they trace you to us.”

“How are you here?” Fenrir asked urgently, whirling Jörmungandr around to cup his face, squinting hard into his vivid, blood-red irises. “How long have you been here?”

“Only a little while.”

“Since the battle?”

Jörmungandr nodded upon prompting, pulling at the wolf’s hands and stepping back. “I’m alright,” he assured him when Fenrir looked a little lost, floundering without the contact. For his part, Jack was eager to look on the bright side.

He exclaimed: “This is amazing! If you’re here then the children are too!”

“Children?” Jörmungandr asked, shaking his head. “I have come across no children.”

“Somehow, an _army_ of Chitauri disappear when they want to,” Jack reasoned. “You probably just haven’t seen them.”

Jörmungandr thought about this for a moment, before inclining his head. “It is possible. However, I do not think it’s likely. Children would be wandering around in fear, whereas the Chitauri deliberately kept covert. That is the only reason they are so quiet. If there were multiple children here, I believe I would have found at least one.”

It was hard to argue with that, especially when said with such unyielding certainty. Jörmungandr was being uncharacteristically solemn, and it echoed onto his brothers. Even Jack, elated at finding his brother and seeing hope for the children, was starting to sink lower to the ground. A faint smattering of snow, coming from nowhere and hardly touching the top of Jörmungandr’s orange hair where he crouched, started to caress the skies.

Jack eventually said, “So it’s just you? Why is it just you?”

Jörmungandr sighed, face patient, quickly moulding into something looking like regret through his exhaustion. “I know as much as you do, Jackson. I am unsure as to why I’m here, how I came to be here at all, nor how to get out. And you two, what are you doing here? And _what_ is that horse?”

“Sleipnir,” Fenrir introduced blithely, whilst Jörmungandr spent a long moment frowning at it.

“Ah, of course,” he then said. Sleipnir was very interested in Jörmungandr, sniffing at the snake until the man was backed into a wall, squirming.

Jack, on the other hand, latched onto another aspect of the conversation.

“You haven’t found an exit?” He asked.

The serpent bristled, jumping to defend himself: “It is a large place. It is only through your seiðr I found _you_.”

“We’ll have to backtrack then. We know the way out.” Jack said, already half way out of their little hidey-hole and beckoning them to follow. “If we can get back to Hel or SHIELD or the Guardians, we might be able to figure out what drew you here and how we can get the children back too.”

“You mean back to where the Chitauri are?” Fenrir snapped. “Or where the rip is in the middle of the sky? You are the only one who can fly, little sparrow. No, we are stuck here for now.”

“They have machines,” Jörmungandr said suddenly, pointing a hand in a vague direction, climbing up a side and peeking over the walls of their hiding place. “They can fly, I’ve seen them.”

“Are you suggesting something?” Jack asked, grinning broadly, whilst Jörmungandr graced him with a sly look.

“You are a quick study, little sparrow,” he said, with a snide approval. He looked to Fenrir, cocking his eyebrow.

Fenrir looked at the two of them for a long moment, before nodding sharply. “Fine. But if we continue on, you must first tell us everything you know. What are we in danger of? It seems unlikely that it is only the Chitauri here.”

“What about those other aliens?” Jack inquired. “You know, the ones who hung back at the attack at SHIELD?”

“You know of them?” Jörmungandr asked, surprised. “The Other and his kind are indeed here. We must be vigilant to avoid them. However…” he paused, considered something, before deciding they might as well know. “The Chitauri inventory is highly guarded. It is possible we will be captured and taken to the Others, if not killed.”

“I like the sound of the former to the latter,” Jack admitted. The corners of Jörmungandr’s lips curled, and he shook his head.

“Personally, I would prefer a swifter demise.”

“That’s uncomfortably ominous,” Jack muttered, and neither he nor Fenrir liked the way the serpent’s eyes crinkled with humour. This silent laughter was out of sorts for their brother, though the amusement in found in dire circumstances was not. In fact, it was a trait found in more than one member of their family. Jack remembered quite keenly that Loki had never shied away from anything dangerous, choosing instead to smile horribly in the face of it.

“You never said why you both came to be here,” Jörmungandr suddenly inquired, tilting his head and blinking, a more serious frown marring his freckled face once again. “How did you find this place?”

“Pitch Black directed us here,” Fenrir replied, looking closely at his brother as his eyes narrowed. Then the serpent smiled, nodding, understanding.

“I heard talk,” he whispered, leaning closer conspiratorially. “That the Nightmare King was here. They saw him.”

“The Others?”

“And another,” Jörmungandr confirmed, voice low with secrecy, before brightening with a twitch of a smile to grace it. “Best not to dwell.”

“Have you heard anything else?” Fenrir wondered, grabbing his brother by the arm when Jörmungandr tried to clamber out, pulling him back to the floor. “A plan, perhaps? What are they working toward?”

The serpent glanced between them, lips thin, evaluating his siblings with a seriousness that did not become him.

Jack was struck with the notion that he was beautiful. That was an unusual thought, not because he wasn’t, but rather that ‘beautiful’ was not how Jack had come to know him.

Like the Winter Spirit himself, Jörmungandr was a child who never bothered to grow up. With a life free of responsibility and void of any parental figures, they had both maintained the maturity of their childhood. The serpent, therefore, often looked strange in his own skin, as if it were a body he would never get used to. Jack oftentimes felt the same; still young, on the precipice of adulthood, but not quite there. They were eternally stuck between the two, and it made it difficult for others to understand them or, sometimes, even spend too long looking.

But now, and it was the third time in hardly twenty minutes that Jack had made this comparison, Jörmungandr seemed like their father in more than simply superficial looks. The serpent was slower and morose, fretful and almost as motionless as the body they had last seen in the hospital bed. In many ways, it suited him, because his motions were as if he, for the first time, had complete control over the limbs he so scorned. Graceful, strong and, indeed, even _beautiful_.

Jörmungandr had never been beautiful in his life. Jack didn’t like the fact he had chosen to start _now_.

Fenrir, however, didn’t notice, focusing on what his brother knew about the space pocket rather than on any changes in his demeanour. The serpent had lost his soul. Jack realised that it wouldn’t be surprising to emerge from that experience _different_.

“ _Bror_ ,” Fenrir snapped, and Jörmungandr paused.

He nodded after a moment. He then said, after another second of private deliberation, “As you have likely guessed, they are looking for the gems. United, they become more powerful than what can be fought. They have a few. That is all I know.”

“Do they have the Gauntlet?”

“No. Loki stole into Asgard and hid it several days ago, along with retrieving the reality gem which he had gifted to Angrboða.”

“Her yellow bead,” Fenrir recalled, eyes wide. “All this time, and we never even knew we three held such power between us.”

“Well, we do not any longer,” Jörmungandr hastened to remind him. “The blue mind gem is gone with the humans, and the yellow is with Loki.”

“What about Fenrir’s?” Jack asked, remembering him saying he had once had a red bead given to him by Loki.

Jörmungandr froze, gaze pointedly avoiding his brother. Fenrir’s jaw began to tighten.

“Jörmungandr,” he said dangerously, expanding impossibly as he straightened his back, imposing and terrifying. “Do these creatures have my bead?”

“Yes.” He said, nodding his head. “Yes, they found their way into Asgard too, using the time and space gem.”

“They don’t have the time gem,” Jack said, knowing that as the orange bead Loki had gifted his mother. As with the bead Jörmungandr had sacrificed, the small orange shard was locked under SHIELD’s protection. But Jack wasn’t stupid, though his mouth sometimes moved faster than his brain. He caught up after he had spoken, recognising the implications of the name _time gem_. “They’re going to get the time gem.”

 “So it would seem.”

“Then they will eventually have yours too,” Jack informed him, worried that this would further upset his already abnormally glum sibling, but it bounced off the cold exterior without a flicker to mar his expression.

“We will have to keep that in mind,” Jörmungandr admitted gravely. “A mind gem is a powerful thing.”

“Luckily the beads are only parts of any one gem. Their effects are only so strong,” Fenrir said, snapping Jörmungandr out of whatever funk he had sunken into. “Until they find the gauntlet and the rest of the gems, we can fight.”

“They are looking for it,” Jörmungandr spoke absently, staring just a little far to the right of Fenrir’s face, distracted and concerned.

“The Gauntlet? It is doubtful they know the realms as well as Loki. With him having put himself in charge of its protection, mad as he may be, there is a very real possibility that they may never discover its whereabouts.”

“Do we have no ideas?” The serpent asked, almost pleadingly. Understandable, Jack considered, observing the changed man he had become so rapidly in times so dire. “No clue as to where he would conceal such a powerful artefact?”

“As far as we know, there is nothing on Jötunheim,” Jack said, just to see whether the fact they had tried looking, even if it had been for the beads and not specifically the gauntlet, made any difference to Jörmungandr’s bleak face.

“Why Jötunheim?” He asked.

“It is so dangerous that no one but Loki, and apparently his brood,” Fenrir huffed with a small amount of amusement, looking around at the four of them. “Would dare search there. A perfect place to conceal that which you do not want found.”

“What is the danger?” Jörmungandr reworded his question, as if he did not know. Fenrir frowned.

“You remember what our father did?” He asked, but didn’t get a chance to analyse Jörmungandr’s reply, since the world started shuddering.

The four of them could feel the ground beneath them reverberate with distant pounding feet as Jack’s new-found power drew the attention of every creature within the space pocket. It was getting frustrating.

“Isn’t there some way I can mask it? Switch it off?” He asked.

“I would not advise switching off your seiðr, sparrow.” Fenrir spoke from experience, whilst Jörmungandr peeked out again, judging which way was safe for them to continue. He hoisted himself up this time with the help of Sleipnir who was still prodding at him, sniffing him curiously, ignoring the incoming danger. Jörmungandr patted his head absently.

“We must be quick.” He reported, pointing in the direction they had to go.

“Quick is my middle name.” Jack promised, then looking to Sleipnir who had backed off from Jörmungandr when Fenrir redirected his strength into keeping the creature away. The spirit joked, “And he’s kinda fast, I guess.”

Fenrir pulled the snake on top of the horse as Jack flew off ahead, using his flight to keep his brothers from running into any Chitauri on the way to wherever the aliens kept their tech. The armies no longer bothering to keep themselves inconspicuous and were easy to recognise, especially now that Jack knew what he was looking for. Eventually he decided they were safe enough for the time being, so floated down to join his siblings.

“I think we should sing a marching anthem,” he said as he settled (as had become the norm) on Fenrir’s broad shoulder.

“And why would we need that?” The wolf asked dryly.

“Well, and I know this isn’t the case for you, Fenrir, but I actually like fun things. In fact, I’m the Guardian of it, which I _definitely_ know you aren’t.”

Through his scowling face, Fenrir managed: “And you think a song will help?”

“It’d make me happy.” Jack smiled, and both siblings considered that it was a good idea to keep Jack’s mood elevated rather than allow him to wallow. There was too much danger in forgetting to regulate his temperament. Better a bit of snow than a misery-fuelled blizzard.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Dunno. I’d suggest something bouncy, but so much happy would probably burn your mouth out. Something classic, then. Jör, do you have any ideas?”

Sitting in front of his brother, listening to the conversation but not joining in, the snake startled when he was addressed, twisting to face them. “What? No, I don’t know any songs.”

“I bet you do. Old pirate ditties, maybe? No? Nothing springing to mind?”

Jörmungandr only frowned, eyebrows creasing together in an expression that matched the one his brother was making behind his back.

“What about _Oh_ _Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling_? Everyone knows that.” Jack tried to prompt, but gave up when neither man showed any glimmer of recognition. “Seriously? Nothing?”

“Perhaps it’s best we find another outlet.” Fenrir said.

“Like a fight?” Jörmungandr suggested, straightening from his seat, navigating his long limbs to crouch on the back of the horse’s back. Jack looked ahead, not seeing anything. Sleipnir’s nostrils were flaring, apparently sensing something where the other two couldn’t.

The older brother asked, “A fight with what?”

From behind them, there was a flap of wings, and a multitude of colours burst into their eye line, several almost knocking Jack straight off his brother’s shoulder. A swarm.

Fenrir Lokison, on the whole, didn’t grin. It wasn’t his fault that he rarely found anything which made him happy enough to physically express his pleasure. Jack had tried to make it a mission to bring a smile to his big brother’s face as often as he could, but he found that no amount of fun could make Fenrir happier than placing him in the middle of a hostile army and letting him off the leash.

Even then, blood-lust and vengeance surging through him, his grin was dangerous; baring his teeth, an animal in disguise. As much as he tried to deny it, Jack had seriously considered the possibility that if the Lokison ever had his magic returned to him Fenrir would go straight back to being a wolf without a second thought.

Jörmungandr was a big more composed, straightening his shoulders and preparing to defend himself as the birds started to circle overhead, staring down at the four with beady, black eyes.

However, they didn’t immediately attack. Whilst their presence was unnerving, their circling making Jack dizzy, they lashed out only when the spirit tried to draw close to them.

“Should we ignore them, or initiate a pre-emptive strike?” Jack said, aiming for jokingly, but that fell short when Fenrir agreed to the latter.

“It might be safer,” he tried to argue when not just Jack but _Jörmungandr_ gave him a disapproving glare. “I’ve lived with the strange beasts upon my island, and they do not act as they should.”

“They make horrible noises. They’re used as alerts.” The snake explained why he disagreed with his brother’s idea. “They can be heard from miles away. If we upset them, the Chitauri will only find us quicker.”

“Is Jack not beacon enough?” Fenrir snapped without tearing his eyes from the bright creatures in the sky. “It does not _matter_ , Jörmungandr.”

“It does,” The serpent said seriously, grabbing his brother’s arm and sinking in his nails. He didn’t even consider the fact that Fenrir was in serious pain from his injury.  “It is important they are left alone.”

“Why?” Jack asked, not liking how the wolf’s eyes had narrowed and his lips had thinned. The younger Lokison felt like he needed to interrupt, because he’d never seen Fenrir grace Jörmungandr with such a venomous look. “Like Fenrir said, they’re going to find us anyway.” But the snake didn’t reply, just shaking his head insistently.

Eventually, after a long look between Fenrir and Jack, they both deflated. “If they attack us-“ Fenrir started, warningly. Jörmungandr held up his hands.

“I cannot blame you then. I thought they might when they approached, but I believe that for now it is best not to aggravate them.”

“We’ll follow your lead, then, Jör.” Jack inserted, as Fenrir still looked a little twitchy at being denied the rights to tear a bird in two. The Spirit of Winter was rather glad his brother had been deprived of the opportunity.

That the birds could keep up with the galloping Sleipnir was worrying them all, and the silence that fell between them was tense. Jack didn’t do _tense_. He had never been capable of accepting awkward situations. He didn’t notice that he’d started humming in a feeble attempt to lighten the situation until Jörmungandr joined in.

“But come he back when summer’s in the meadow,” The serpent sang absently, looking to the path ahead rather than at his brother. “I _do_ know that song.”

“It’s a classic.”

“I’ve never heard it.” Fenrir said, almost petulantly, as if he was being excluded from a game.

“It’s about being left behind.” Jörmungandr explained, but Jack was quick to put a positive spin on the miserable lyrics.

“There is hope of being reunited.”

“In the afterlife, perhaps.” Jörmungandr returned.

“Still reunited. I mean, I would never have met you three if I hadn’t died.”

Fenrir reached up to touch his knee gently, whilst Jörmungandr twisted around again to stare at him critically. Eventually, after Jack had raised his eyebrows questioningly, the snake just nodded and turned back.

Their destination was not far ahead, so Sleipnir was tugged to a halt by the serpent’s skilled hands. He gently rubbed the horse’s neck as they dismounted. Sleipnir leaned into the touch, a lot warmer towards Jörmungandr than towards the other two. However, that wasn’t entirely surprising considering that Jack was cold in a physical sense, whereas for Fenrir it was emotional.

“Where are we going?” Fenrir asked, keeping his voice low. His brother crooked a finger and beckoned them to another semi-concealed area, ducking behind it as they properly assessed the environment.

There didn’t seem to be anyone about, which made alarm bells ring in the back of Jack’s head. He didn’t bother to grab Jörmungandr when he recklessly jumped out into the open area, since even as thin as the serpent was, Jack was skinnier. Instead, he reached out for his new-found powers, aiming to control them instead of simply lashing out and hoping for the best.

“Freeze!” He exclaimed, glad to note that this time he managed to encase only the feet of his victim in ice. “Get it?”

“You’re making a jest based on your element of magic.” Jörmungandr summarised, frowning as he failed to free himself. “Very humorous.”

“ _I_ thought it was.” Jack grinned, looking to his other brother. This was a mistake, since it immediately killed his good mood. Jack didn’t appreciate the feel of being plunged headfirst into a bucket of icy water, partly because he knew first-hand that it wasn’t _fun_ and partly because his good mojo was all he had left to cling to.

Fenrir’s face was a storm, staring at the red-haired man who was gritting his teeth as he pushed through Jack’s bespoke snow-shoes. The ice was creaking encouragingly, but Jörmungandr had yet to escape.

Jack wanted to ask what was wrong, but realised just before he opened his mouth that he didn’t need to. Whilst he wasn’t entirely sure what was going through Fenrir’s muddle of a mind, he knew what was triggering the dramatic swings of temper between his usual grumpy and outright furious.

Above them, the birds still circled, a bright array of colours whirling overhead. It was as much a signal of where they were as any screech would have been. Jörmungandr paid them no mind, successfully ripping himself free, peeking towards the area where the machines they were looking for were kept. Jack hadn’t spotted any, but Jörmungandr seemed confident in which direction they were going.

“There’s no one there,” he reported, looking particularly at Jack as he wriggled his toes in an attempt to return some feeling to them. He was leaning on the wall as his feet proved unreliable, but every second saw him steadier. “This time, I’d suggest we actually _go over_ there and acquire something useful.”

“Why is it not anyone around?” Fenrir asked suspiciously, glancing to where Jörmungandr had looked and likewise seeing a deserted area. “If there are weapons here-“

“Perhaps they got distracted when Jackson arrived,” Jörmungandr said rationally. “Such power draws great attention, and the Chitauri are not among the most intelligent of species.”

Neither Fenrir or Jack liked that excuse, and nor it seemed, did the serpent who came up with it, but he stood by his suggestion and gestured pointedly out of their hiding place. “Stalling will only allow them time to stop us.”

This, at least, spurred them on. Sleipnir stayed behind as Jörmungandr led the way, only a little bit tremulous on his defrosting feet. Fenrir took up the rear whilst Jack floated ahead, keeping an eye on the avian circle above them, disliking their buzzard-like motion. He called out to his brothers when he recognised they were descending down, following them as they walked.

“Maybe Fenrir had the right idea all along,” He ended up suggesting, sinking back towards his brothers as the circling lowered, becoming almost menacingly close. If Jack tried to fly again, he would be in clear range of their nasty beaks.

“I should have killed them all long before now,” Fenrir agreed, closing in on his brother, pulling Jack down too by an ankle to keep them both safe. The birds were forcing them like that, ensnaring the three of them within their strange flight-pattern. The only thing that kept Fenrir from lashing out was the fact that they were liable to take his other hand clean from his wrist. If that happened, then he would be rendered completely useless.

“Oh, shit,” Jack cursed, recognising in tandem with his siblings why the birds were acting so unusually. “It’s a trap.”

\--

Hel remained at the North Pole with the Guardians, patiently awaiting news of her brothers’ return. Though she could not see the spirits, she could sense the agitation that pierced the air; the worry after Jack’s safety.

Then again, that could have been the strange Yeti creatures which bustled with enthusiasm on the workshop floors. There was the run-up to the Winter Solstice which they seemed particularly anxious to greet, and Hel wasn’t ignorant enough to forget that Christmas was a very important celebration to many millions of humans.

The fact the Guardians themselves could not readily communicate with her – and nor, did she imagine, would they want to – meant that she was left alone with the Yetis and the elves. The elves themselves were monstrous little miscreants, who were just as focused on Christmastime as the Yetis were, albeit in a rather differing capacity. Whilst the eight-foot furry beasts tinkered and painted, the little pointy-eared devils were determined to liven the atmosphere by being constantly underfoot. Hel recognised that they didn’t go out of their _way_ to be mischievous, though one or two certainly gave it their best shot, it just seemed to be in their nature. They were dim-witted and yet sly, and she found herself watching them with a distant fondness as they occasionally tried to travel on the long trains of her many skirts.

With their preoccupation, Hel was left with no company bar that of Pitch Black, and whilst she was not _happy_ to meet him once again, she could have been left with someone worse. Pitch, at least, seemed to like her. Certainly, his fondness hadn’t diminished since they had last spoken, and yet he maintained a polite cautious air which calmed her down. Hel didn’t feel comfortable when others were relaxed in her presence. Not even her own father was truly immune to her innate ability to send chills down spines.

It was to do with her position, she had always supposed, though now she knew more of her background she also recognised how her own physiology and temperament played into that image she had created for herself.

Pitch was not necessarily _bad_ company. At least he was there. Whilst Hel wasn’t a stranger to being alone, as a ruler of a very busy and complex realm it was a rare moment in which she found herself completely isolated. However, being on another world in a stranger’s home when she could not even _perceive_ her host had left her somewhat guarded. Having a companion through that, at the very least, kept her distracted.

He had followed her from where they had said goodbye to her brothers up towards the Globe Room, where the glinting lights of the child-believers still held strong despite the tragedies she knew were happening across the realm. There were less of them than last time, she recognised, though only enough to account for the children who had been victimised by the soul gem.

She was once again impressed by the magic which swirled around the globe, connecting together the children through their shared beliefs. It was all very fascinating. She spent a while considering the pros and cons of having her own version, but replacing _belief_ with _life-span_. She felt a hall containing connected series of globes depicting the nine realms would be appropriately morbid for her own home. She lost herself for a while in the restful, idealistic musings of what she planned to do just as soon as she returned to her own abode.

Such quiet contemplations, however, were interrupted when the Nightmare King stomped neatly on the few comforting notions she had left.

“What happened at your realm?” He asked, oblivious (or maybe not completely ignorant) that she had been avoiding thinking on what had happened else she lose her temper.

“Perhaps you should see for yourself,” she suggested, meeting his eye before registering the dampening feel of the magical cage around the grotto for the first time. “Ah. You’re trapped here, I notice. Perhaps that is for the best.”

“Will you tell me?” He asked again, already irritable enough without her needling on the fact he was imprisoned with three Guardians as his jailers and the Queen of the Underworld as his temporary roommate.

“No.”

“Hel, you’ve clearly been driven out of your own domain by something that not even you have the power to control. The same something, I’d wager, as the force which has finally pushed Loki over the edge.” He took a moment to consider: “Not that I’m surprised. I’m actually _very_ impressed it took him two-thousand years to finally crack-“

“They took the spirits.”

This, at least, stopped the nattering for a while whilst Pitch processed what she had said. “All of them?”

Hel nodded.

“Can they do that?”

“No, they shouldn’t have. I am still unsure how they did. It was not the soul gem which took them, though it was certainly present. I could feel it. It permeates the air, like a sickness.”

“There’s a _smell_ ,” Pitch interrupted knowledgably. He didn’t need to elaborate, because Hel had experienced it so recently that the mere mention made a vivid recollection slam into the forefront of her mind, almost making her gag. She couldn’t find any accurate way to describe what it had felt like, and living in a land of the dead, the fact she was lost for words was impressive and not a little intimidating.

She said, after a long silence: “They came suddenly. They were after something specific, and they knew where to find it. It was not concealed,” she defended herself and her own security quickly when Pitch’s expression became harsh. “I did not myself know what the bead truly was until the effects of an active gem in close proximity brought its dormant power to my attention. The spirits had gone before I could fight anything. I did not realise what was happening until it was almost over. I only had enough time to warn my brothers, recognising that if my bead was what it was then they would also be a target. Afterwards, once I recognised the situation was more than I could handle, I left.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Of what good is a realm with no one in it?”

Pitch was shaking his head, looking at her sternly. “No, it is more than that,” he knew. Whether he could read it in her posture, or whether he was talking from prior experience, he _knew_. “Something was there. I said it before, did I not? Something a lot more powerful than you.”

“A creature from legend,” she acknowledged, unwilling to say his name out loud. Pitch knew who she spoke of, and likewise understood why she had left so quickly. “He was not there personally, but I could feel him as I knew the gem. He is powerful, and I was not prepared. I am not reckless enough to attempt to stand my ground without at least a plan.”

“A wise decision. One which I’m not convinced your father made.”

“Then my father is more of a fool than I thought him to be,” she snapped unkindly, and Pitch did not correct her. He watched her quietly, whilst she closed her eyes and pretended she was within the safety of her own walls once again. She felt her mind drift as the silence stretched out into oblivion, and she allowed it to run whichever course it wanted to in a bid to remove herself from her memories and the fact she knew it would be a long time before she deemed it safe to return home.

However, running from her own problems had forced her to confront the problems of others. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, Hel considered as her eyes snapped open again and she turned quickly to address her shadow-lurking companion, since she was significantly better equipped to find solutions for other people’s issues than hers.

She felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips, and she said to Pitch’s startled and suspicious face: “I know how to do it.”

“Know how to do what?”

Hel pointed to the globe, where the lights of the believers twinkled ominously. She bared a grin, more demented than soothing, and her eyes widened with the impact of her own genius. “I know how to reach the souls!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yey! Okay, I know we all know who I’m talking about, this plot has been done a million times over, but I personally haven’t done it, I’ve had it planned for a while. I enjoy it and thus I won’t apologise. =D Hope you stick with me! There’s still plenty more to come.


	36. ‘Tis You, ‘Tis You Must Go and I Must Bide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a few people asking for my character designs for Jör and Fenrir, so here’s a link: http://space-leviathan.tumblr.com/post/71995797452/some-oc-doodles-from-my-fic-for-interested-readers
> 
> Sorry this took a while. This chapter is a touch longer to make up for it.

The details of where they were had been lost in the flurry of motion and snarls and screaming animalistic noises and brightly coloured feathers. Jack, Jörmungandr and Fenrir were moving, but they didn’t know where they were going; the brothers had been forced to close their eyes to keep themselves safe from sharp claws and beaks.

When the noises died suddenly, it left a ringing in Jack’s ears that made him collapse. He tried to blink, but felt the terror of uncertainty when he realised he couldn’t tell the difference between his eyes being open or shut.

Jack felt a hand clasp around his ankle as he tried to assess his surroundings, but the darkness was absolute. He kicked out, attempting to dislodge the grip, but calmed when Fenrir’s voice spoke in close proximity.

“Jackson?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Jack replied, shifting closer to his brother and trying to draw his leg with him without causing himself undue pain. This was exactly the reason why he had tried to avoid landing from his consistent flight, else he’d start to realise how fast his leg had decayed back into the state it had been when he was a boy, before he was given his staff. Jack hardly thought he could stand on it, so it was a good thing that he didn’t have to. Though his powers didn’t help the atrophied leg, flying meant he never had to worry about being immobile.

For now he sat next to his brother, finding comfort in the cold side he was pressed against, and didn’t bother to move.

“Jör?” He asked out into the darkness, jumping when another hand came to brush against his arm.

“Jörmungandr is here,” Fenrir said at the same time that the serpent announced himself. “Where are we, bror?”

“We are in the prison cells. I have not been in here before, so I don’t know a way out.”

“It would be of more use if we had something to light the surroundings with.” Fenrir pointed out, and Jack exclaimed he was on it, waving his hands to create a little horse of ice particles, the edges glinting under the dull light of magic. Fenrir watched with a gentle gaze as the animal miniature stalked through the air, hardly visual in the darkness, but the soft glow caught his face, then Jörmungandr’s. Jack met the snake’s red eyes as he stared directly at the Guardian of Fun.

“Where’s Sleipnir?” He asked, but none of them knew, assuming that the horse had the sense to gallop in the opposite direction at the first sign of trouble.

Jack extinguished the light when noises approached overhead, and the strange, slow light of the universe seeped in, making the brothers flinch. Above them, the ceiling moved open, revealing that there were otherwise no entrances or exits, only a pit which the prisoners had been contained.

Fenrir stood first, beckoning Jörmungandr to stand behind him as he hovered over Jack protectively. He snarled warningly upwards, threateningly, but stopped when nothing peered down into the hole.

The two elder brothers shared a glance, and Jörmungandr stepped closer. “Help me up.”

Fenrir allowed him to clamber onto his shoulders as the serpent managed to hoist himself out. He stood into a defensive position as soon as he clambered upright, peering around for any hostiles.

After a moment, he looked down and shook his head. Like his siblings, the snake was uneasy in the circumstances, not liking the fact they might just be walking out of one trap and straight into another.

Jack grabbed his staff and started to drag himself to his untrustworthy feet under his brother’s watchful gaze. He only caught himself with liberal use of his own powers when he startled and lost footing, the _snick_ of a blade from overhead surprising him, then the low threatening noises of Jörmungandr in response.

“Jörmungandr!” Fenrir yelled, but they only caught sight of the tail-ends of his hair as he swayed too close to the hole, jumping away from an attack.

A body was thrown down the hole, dark and sharp-toothed and armoured, a Chitauri in all its glory, almost ripped in two. The noises got louder and Fenrir and Jack were treated to the sight of the red splash of Jörmungandr’s hair getting lost amid the dark aliens which swarmed him. The two brothers had seen something too similar too recently to not feel the sharpness of terror and déjà vu. Jack was ready to go save him as he couldn’t last time when his attentions were distracted as hands and feet and snarling faces jumped into the pit alongside them.

Jack jumped into the air, fright startling him to safe heights, dodging claws and gnashing teeth as he darted higher. From this view, he could see Fenrir being dragged out of the hole by the Chitari towards where Jörmungandr was still holding his ground, fighting with fists clenched tight.

When Fenrir was thrown to the ground next to where Jörmungandr was surrounded, Jack saw something else appear in the middle of the swarming army, familiar and unsettling, this time armed where before they had not been.

As Fenrir struggled to get up with one hand, Jörmungandr was knocked down. Both were stopped, as they tried to swipe outwards in their own defence, by blades being pressed to the front of their throats.

The Lokisons froze. Their eyes drifted up the length of the swords, stopping when they saw gruesome masked creatures looming over them. Whilst they had none of the height or girth of the Chitauri, their darkly stained skin and bared pointed teeth was enough to pose a threat greater than that of any single alien soldier.

The weapons they held to the Lokisons necks didn’t hurt, either.

Jack was too wary of his brothers’ mortality to risk floating down, except when he realised that no one was paying him any attention. For all that Jack was apparently a shining beacon of magic, not a single soul was looking up at him now.

One of the creatures spoke, voice too soft for Jack to hear up the air. He swooped down as close as he dared, then even closer when no Chitauri reached out to grab him. He managed to land behind Fenrir’s bulk without a single eye flickering towards him, and he was filled with a deep suspicion that he might in fact be as invisible here as he was on Earth. But surely that was impossible. On Lyngvi, a magicless void as this space pocket was, Jack had been visible to everyone.  

He was distracted by the wisp of a voice that the creatures spoke with, calling themselves _the Other_. It was an echo of a noise, empty and hollow.

“What a pleasure to have a child of Loki here,” it spoke, looking to Fenrir’s half-risen form as Jack slowly peeked around.

“How did you come to be here?” The other Other asked.

Fenrir didn’t reply until they made a threatening move towards Jörmungandr. He quickly said, “We were guided here.”

“By whom? A friend?”

The reason Fenrir did not answer this time was because he did not know how to. Whilst he might not be an overt enemy, Pitch was certainly not a _friend_. However, his hesitance seemed to be as damning as calling the Nightmare King by name. A quick look between the brothers, than to each other, and the Others breathed out in realisation.

“Ah, General Kozmotis.” The one in front of Jörmungandr spoke softly, unaffected by the deadly cold stares the Lokisons directed at him. “We have had dealings with him before, as has our master. A long time ago.”

 “Where did you summon the power for the weather? We did not know you possessed such strength, Lokison,” the one in front of Fenrir asked.

“They can’t see me,” Jack breathed into Fenrir’s ear as the Others took a moment to squint at them and stretch the tense air between questions. The spirit was relieved to see that neither of his brothers reacted to his voice. “They couldn’t see me on Earth, either.”

The wolf’s brows furrowed, but instead of answering the question, he distracted them with one of his own.

“What of these birds?” There were not many for him to gesture to, but in the distance, attracted by the noise of restless Chitauri soldiers and the presence of the Other, a few flapped around in the air. At this distance, they were black as night, hardly visible against the spotted sky.

“They listen,” the Other told him. “We found them most useful, as creatures able to cross realms and function even in the desolation of space, or the void of your island. And we found _you_. We even let them lead your way.”

“What? You drew us here?” Fenrir snarled, not even leaning back when the sword pressed against his neck drew blood as his ill temper overcame him. “Why?”

The second Other suddenly moved, quicker than even Jack could react, blurring through the air and grabbing Jörmungandr by the neck, pulling back his head. The snake snarled, but his chest was quick with panic, and both Jack and Fenrir tensed, bodies shivering with both fear and anger.

“You left something here,” the first Other said. “Not only that, but we heard from a Vanr, a snivelling creature called Þegnson, that the Lokisons were organising a coup. He took the news to Odin.”

“Nótt Þegnson is a fool,” Fenrir said, but otherwise didn’t understand what the strange creature was attempting to tell him. Jack had a sneaking suspicion he did.

“We were going to allow you to remain on Earth, but then you wished to come here,” The Other said. “And with you the Asgardians? Oh, yes, the birds hear _all_. It was too much of a good opportunity to ignore.”

“They’re going to set us up,” Jack hissed to his brother, who was clenching his one remaining fist agitatedly. “Will Odin really be surprised when he finds _us_ heading the Chitauri army? Loki arranged the attack on New York, remember?”

It was actually very clever, and allowed the Others to leave without even a trace of their existence as the blame fell neatly on the rebellious children of the Father of Chaos. No one would even doubt they weren’t involved, and they would be taken away and locked up. Not a soul would believe their story about two-thumbed aliens.

“Is that all?” Fenrir said, scoffing. The Others became suspicious at his cocky attitude, whilst his red-haired brother stared at him wildly. “You attack us for our beads, and now you try to scapegoat us? We do not have the beads! Asgard is not so stupid as to believe such a lie.”

“They are when they are blinded by their hatred. And,” The Other said, “Your signal to your father.”

The Lokisons frowned, Fenrir shaking his head. “I have given Loki no information-“

“Have you not?” The Other spat, waving his hand and showing a thin, translucent image of a tree in Finland, with the runes: _We found them_ , scratched in Jörmungandr’s hand. Their bait to trap Loki which had not worked and the brothers never thought about again, which would now serve to damn them.

“We hadn’t found _anything_ ,” Fenrir insisted, but knew it was futile. It didn’t matter if the Other believed him, since Asgard would not.

“They will waste their time torturing you and your brother,” (and Jörmungandr kicked and tried to fight, his hand clenched around the blade, dripping blood down his arm,) “Whilst we collect the rest of the infinity gems and find your father. We will dig further into his mind, destroy him once again, and find the answers we seek.”

Fenrir howled, bashing at the blade threatening him, rising to his feet and advancing, only to be stopped by the Other and its strange two-thumbed hand clutching his scarred face. “Unless you know where your father has hidden the Gauntlet?”

“What did you do to him?” Fenrir asked, aware they knew how little information he could give them, but threatened by the slimy digits encircling his head whilst the sword pressed against his side.

“He was easy to break in the end. Loki, a _god_ ,” The Other scoffed, bearing his teeth as Fenrir did. Without his powers, Fenrir was only threatening in size. The alien staring up at him knew he had the wolf caught and perhaps even tamed. “Odin All-Father took his magic from him, and we were waiting. You are not trained in the art, dog, but the magic can protect the mind too. He was vulnerable to our influences for too long, caving more and more to our will after he escaped the safety of his Asgardian cell.”

Jörmungandr had stilled under his captor’s blade to listen, as had Fenrir. Jack, the only remaining Lokison free to move, completely unrestricted with no eyes lingering where he hovered, had no idea what to do. Even with all his powers he did not think he could take on the entire, endless army which surrounded them on all sides. Nor did he want to risk his brothers’ safety, close as they were to the weapons which threatened them.

The Other continued, “The void had already started to consume him after his fall, and his magic could not correct the wrongs once we finally had a hold of him. Perhaps you have felt it Fenrir, I can see how your mind has suffered, but the void is more than silence and space. It feeds as much as all else.

“He stayed strong for a long time,” The alien admitted softly to the Lokisons who strained to hear, hardly audible over the heavy breathing of his captives. “But once he left Asgard’s protection, there was nothing he could do. Even when he broke the chains of his magic, we had him. He had failed us, and we were determined to possess him or punish him for his wrongs.”

Fenrir scoffed in the creature’s face, lips a gruesome sneer with the stretch of his scar, shaking his head. “You lie. He stole the Gauntlet from under Asgard’s nose, and I know it was not for you.”

“No,” the Other admitted, leaning in closer, his smile just as hideous as Fenrir’s. “He fights us, you see, even now when every memory of those he loves has been utterly shattered. He fights himself, knowing that he is broken.”

“It’s why you don’t know where he’s hidden it,” Jörmungandr said suddenly. “He doesn’t know himself.”

“He thinks you’re as useless as the other children. Perhaps it will comfort you to know that he is wrong. You and your brother will find infinite use under our service.”

From overhead, the birds had come closer. Upon the Other’s words, they started spitting: _Useless, useless_. A mantra which Jack had heard before, reported to come from Loki’s own mouth. Jack wanted to believe that it wasn’t Loki’s thoughts, but a projection of the Other and this poisonous environment. The phrase _…as the other children_ lingered, and Jack wanted to know what was so useless about them, especially when the Others were stealing those apparently _useless_ souls.

“Why are they useless?” Jack hissed at his brother, but it was Jörmungandr who relayed the question. His mind was obviously elsewhere, and Jack was reminded of a boy Jörmungandr had spoken of in passing, the heartbreak he’d shown in Finland when he recalled a battle, the dreams Fenrir had whispered about. The words _Harry_ and _yngel_ breathed between screams.

“What do you know of the Soul Gem?” One of the Others asked him, continuing without waiting for an answer from his audience. “It needs to be kept _satisfied_. It becomes stronger with each soul it devours. However, we cannot allow it to become too strong.”

“Or it’ll eat you, too?” Fenrir growled.

“Children appease it. Small, but _pure_. Still, we can only allow it to take so many.”

“You can use them,” Jack said out loud, seeing as everything clicked into place. “A hostile take-over failed, but the soulless children are hostages. They can overthrow Earth using their kids.”

Fenrir stiffened as he heard Jack’s words. The children taken by the Soul Gem had worth, even if they were fading. The rest had no value, and were…

“Useless.” Jörmungandr said, eyes wide with despair. He was thrashing again, his neck nicked with the blade and his hand slashed red with blood. The Others looked at him, mouths wide and gaping, laughing at him with low, hideous sounds which made Jack’s skin itch.

“The little boy you loved,” they said. “He was more of a target than any other, wearing such a precious gift.”

They let him loose, and Jörmungandr immediately set upon the one which held him, screaming.

“Jörmungandr, stop!“ Fenrir yelled, and Jack tried to restrain him, trying to encase him in ice. This time, the effects were not as solid, and Jörmungandr was breaking free of the hoarfrost almost as quickly as Jack could create it. He did not like it, choking out pained noises, but he ignored it over his own anguish.

“No!” The snake howled, eyes glinting dangerously in the burning light. “No, Fenrir, do not tell me to stop! He was _mine_. He could have been _mine_ and I killed that dream. I killed that boy!”

And for a second, Jack was taken back to their scouting trip to Finland, where Jörmungandr lost the deadly focus of his red eyes and started drowning in the past. This was the first time since they rediscovered the serpent that he properly recognised his brother.

And then it was gone. Jörmungandr stopped dead. He stepped back from the Other, which had been holding him back in the same way the first Other held Fenrir. His shoulders were hanging low, defeated and devastated, before that too was shaken off.

“You may stop now,” the Other spoke softly, and Jörmungandr nodded, putting a hand to his head.

“I thought I felt-“ he said, but his voice trailed off and his eyes blinked owlishly at his brothers. The sword the Other held to him dropped, and Jörmungandr took another pace backwards.

“Bror,” Fenrir said, but Jörmungandr stopped, laughed like the chime of glass at the back of his throat. As quickly as Jack had seen him for the first time, he was gone, and something shattered and strange stood in his place.

“You should stop too, Fenrir. It is ridiculous for you to fight this.”

“What are you talking about, brother?”

“You realise the Others were not the only one who wished ill upon you?” He said, voice heady with revelation, smile twitching up the sides of his face. “Why do you think the humans didn’t want you searching for the rest of the beads yourself? Did you not stop to consider, _bror_ , that you left for Jötunheim and suddenly the attacks grow worse? How do you think their ridiculous little minds work? They are not _helping_ you, Fenrir. They _blame_ you.”

“Oh, shit,” Jack said, because Jörmungandr should not know that the attacks on the children got worse, and nor should he be grinning like that when they were surrounded by enemies.

A look to Fenrir to ensure that he’d caught on, and Jack was even more stump on what they were supposed to do now. Try and escape? Abandon Jörmungandr? Kidnap him? Fight him?

“How long?” Fenrir asked, voice a tremor away from a whisper, private and yet completely exposed. “How long? Since you’ve been here?”

Jörmungandr nodded, unaffected by the emotional – or as emotional as Fenrir became – display from his brother.

“Why?” Jack asked, but Jörmungandr ignored him.

The Other focused on Fenrir again, smiling benignly. It looked malicious on his strange face. “You see, Lokison, we have spies _everywhere_.”

Fenrir would have likely bitten him, or gouged his fingers into the alien’s eye, if he hadn’t felt Jack hovering nearby, uncertain and scared. He slowed his breathing, glanced towards Jörmungandr, and then back to the dark not-eyes of his captor.

“I will not let this lie.” He promised instead of threatening outright. “You poisoned my father’s mind, and _ensnared_ my brother into following you. You will pay for the harm you have given my family.”

“It was not so difficult,” The Other assured him, picking up on the wolf’s confusion. “Lost and alone, we set him on the right path.”

It obviously took a lot for Fenrir to keep still, to belay his anger and channel it. He wanted to attack, to maim the creatures taunting him until their words turned to screams, and Jack was scared of that too. The world around him was no longer safe, it never had been, but at least before he’d had his brothers to rely on. Now one was hardly keeping himself together, looking as if he’d prefer to impale himself on a blade than surrender, and the other was watching them with a patience he’d never before possessed.

Jack felt rather than saw the tingles of magic tickling through Fenrir’s injured arm. The wolf had locked eyes with the Other and refused to allow the alien’s attention to sway, and from the magic – gifted by Hel, a one-time only parting gift to keep him safe in the most dire of situations – grew claws of ice, as deadly as his own had been before they had been severed from his hand.

They would have sliced off the hand holding his face, cut the Other in two, and then a battle would begin. Jack was ready to defend his brother, recognising the necessity to destroy in order to escape.

They might have even stood a fair chance, what with Fenrir’s rage and Jack’s surging power, if it hadn’t been for Jörmungandr’s own sharp fingers darting out and clasping around Fenrir’s wrists, pressure and a new application of his own magic making the claws crack and shatter and fall around their feet. Fenrir roared, the magic linked in to his very flesh, making the loss feel as if his fingers had been destroyed all over again.

Jörmungandr was not sympathetic, looking down dispassionately at the wolf as he broke away from the Other’s hold and stood back, panting, staring at the serpent betrayed.

“You have seiðr?” he spoke, teeth grit and almost unintelligible. He looked again at Jörmungandr’s red eyes and pointed teeth, evidence of a form he should not have access to in this magicless world. Several things fell into place in quick succession, triggered by the display of power that Jörmungandr should not possess.

“That is _not_ my brother!” Fenrir snarled, as Jörmungandr smiled and tossed his hair with bitter humour. The wolf lunged for the Other, and he took the front of his clothes in hand, “Where is he? If he isn’t here, where did you take him?”

It was a game to them, Jack realised, keeping Fenrir trapped and seemingly alone, mocking him for all his loss and ignorance. “We do not know. He is but an echo now, a body without a soul lost on Midgard. Your brother is gone forever, and this one is _ours_.”

Fenrir was pulled away from the Other by a burst of impossible strength from the creature that looked like Jörmungandr. He pinned Fenrir to the floor and hovered over him with a small blade pointed at his face. The clone said, “Think of your brother, waiting for you on that desolate rock, so far away. You will never see Midgard again, and nor will you see him. He’ll die, and you will be left behind.” He overcame Fenrir’s struggles easily, resting on his chest, as stubborn and immovable as Mjölnir. He sang, gently, glancing up at Jack as he leaned closer with the knife, “But when he come and all the flowers are dying, if I am dead as dead I well may be. You’ll come and find the place where I am lying and kneel and say an _ave_ there for me.”

The Jörmungandr doppelganger was suddenly displaced, knocked clear of Fenrir as Jack took aim and let loose. The spirit then dodged up into the sky as the Chitauri howled at the sign of a fight, restless, waiting for a signal from the Others. Jörmungandr laughed, a sharp noise piercing the air, as Fenrir scrambled away. Jack had taken to the skies, keeping his eyes on the familiar orange hair as he picked himself up and stalked back towards the wolf. Fenrir, eyes trained on his brother’s likeness, began to shuffle backwards, finding that for the first time in his life he truly was helpless. Chitauri he could punch, the Others he could try to rip limb from limb, but a being that looked exactly like Jörmungandr, down to the neat freckles which lined his left eyebrow? It left him vulnerable, because he was unwilling to harm anything that looked so much like his brother.

An unwinnable skirmish was going to start any second now. Jack assessed their situation, using his birds-eye perspective to spot the waves of motion and agitation coming from the mindless Chitauri, itching to dig their claws into flesh. Fenrir was not a weak opponent, but he had no more tricks to pull out of his sleeve.

Jack considered sending out a warning blast of ice, just to keep them back for a while longer, before wondering whether it would be misconstrued as a provocation to the warmongering aliens. He was interrupted, however, by a glint of golden armour and a flash of white light.

Jack blinked, moving to cover his eyes before his sight readjusted to the lingering darkness. The Others were gone, but the Jörmungandr doppelganger remained, warily scanning over the many masked faces for anything amiss.

A battle cry pierced through the thick, sticky air, and Fenrir defended the red-haired man on instinct. A warrior, clearly Asgardian in origin, stared up at the shaking, furious wolf, who really had nothing left to lose.

As soon as the Áss was dispatched, more soldiers appeared in distracting flashes, roaring and making not only for the Lokisons, but also the snarling Chitauri. Jörmungandr, laughing, made a gesture and immediately the entire Chitauri army was at his beck and call. They lashed back out against Asgard as they arrived, just in time, amply distracting the monstrous Chitauri as Jörmungandr turned back to face the wolf.

“Thank you,” he said politely, pointing to the Asgardian body at their feet, who would have happily taken Jörmungandr’s head if it hadn’t been for Fenrir’s quick reflexes. However, it was a false confession and he immediately tripped the feet from under the wolf, sending them back to where they had been before.

Jack was quicker to react this time, sending Jörmungandr sprawling away and standing protectively over his brother. The red-head glared, picking himself up, unfolding his limbs gracefully. His movements were so overtly the antithesis of the actual Jörmungandr that Jack could have kicked himself for not pointing out anything amiss earlier.

“I am such an idiot,” he said, laughing in his face. “You might think you’re so clever, fooling us with your act, but it’s just that me and Fenrir can be really stupid sometimes.”

“That’s frankly apparent,” the doppelganger returned, and even the tone of his voice sounded wrong. “Little sparrow, if you would step aside so I may maul my _brother_.”

“I thought you wanted to frame us,” Jack didn’t shift from in front of Fenrir, who was trying to keep track of the conversation whilst keeping the Chitauri from attacking Jack whilst he wasn’t paying attention.

“We need you alive, not _unharmed_ ,” Jörmungandr pleasantly replied. Jack’s skin crawled as the malice swept through his brother’s clone. He hovered lower, firmer, clenching his staff with both hands.

He pointed out, “Aren’t you setting yourself up too?” but the Jörmungandr’s double had a reply for that, suddenly lashing out to wrap his hand around Jack’s crippled leg, tugging the spirit down.

“Yesss,” he hissed, throwing the Winter Spirit down.

Jack yelled, pain sparking through him, having forgotten over the last three hundred years how much he had suffered as a child, dealing with a leg which he could not rely.

What Jörmungandr’s doppelganger was planning to do with the Guardian, whether attack or kill, was derailed as the deathly freeze of Jack’s own skin made him cry out in pain and snatch his hand back. He flinched back when Jack reached out to touch him, surprised to find Jörmungandr’s palm damaged with the chill.

This time, those red eyes were dark with bloodlust, murder and fury clouding them beyond recognition, but the serpent hardly made it two steps towards him before Jack was up in the air and out of his reach, delighted by the weakness he had found. Jörmungandr could not touch him, and Jack was safe.

Fenrir, however, was not.

The Asgardian soldiers seemed to be holding their own, very few of them dying in the face of thousands of Chitauri, but neither were the aliens deterred even when the Asgardian blades mercilessly cut down their fellows.

Jack left them to it, trusting that they could look after themselves, turning back to his brother. Jörmungandr, now beside himself, had pounced again, and Fenrir had fought back. However, the ginger could recognise when he had the advantage, playing on Fenrir’s love for his brother to maintain the upper hand.

Softly, he was saying: “And I shall hear tho’ soft you tread above me and all my grave will warm and sweeter be, for you will bend and tell me that you love me and I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.” In Jörmungandr’s voice, wearing his visage, the words almost broke Fenrir, who was heaving for breath, panic overwhelming him. Jack felt himself well up with rage, the weather darkening, winds howling from nowhere, but Jörmungandr paid their surroundings no mind, finding pleasure in Fenrir’s tormented expression.

Jack wanted to kill him. It ate through him, the desire to keep his brother safe mingling with the need for vengeance and the desire to do harm to the torturer. He was no longer scared. Consumed by his anger, he barely aimed, sending down a deadly strike of lightning ice. The doppelganger ducked to avoid it, laughing delightedly, high on the battle and the blood and the anger, and he was as mocking and as vicious as the original, as demented and damaged, but Jörmungandr would never threaten to bring harm to his family and Jack could no longer see the creature standing before him as anything other than an enemy.

Before he could strike again, low to the ground and close enough for a direct hit, the outcry of an animal cut through into the writhing bodies around them, bursting through the Chitauri and Asgardians alike. Golden, glinting richly with each flash of light as another wave of Asgard’s soldiers arrived, Sleipnir trampled around them, pushing Jörmungandr back and allowing the two Lokisons to put some much needed space between them.

There was a body mounted on the back of the eight-legged horse, and Jack could have screamed in frustration when he saw who was upon it.

“ _Jörmungandr_?” Fenrir yelled. The freckled man, certainly not the same Jörmungandr which was stalking towards them with a dangerous glint in his unnatural red eyes, gestured that Fenrir stop gawping.

“Get on,” he snapped, his voice imperial and authoritative. Fenrir didn’t dare disobey, and Jack followed after them. Fenrir grabbed hold of him as the new, perhaps the _real_ , Jörmungandr expertly dug his heels into the side of Sleipnir, navigating the beast as if he had grown up riding him. The horse started to reach speeds Jack would fail to match, so he gripped onto Fenrir as tightly as his brother held him. They watched the fast approaching horizon as Jörmungandr lay almost flat against Sleipnir’s neck, urging him on with gentle whispers.

“You’re not my brother,” Fenrir said, and the snake glanced over his shoulder, lips thin.

“No,” he admitted. At least this one was honest. Definitely not Jörmungandr.

“Who are you?”

The man didn’t reply, focusing on cutting down as many Chitauri which stood in their way, trampling them under Sleipnir’s many feet with deadly accuracy. Jack reached around and pointed his staff, aiming to ease the way.

It took a few soft words, delicate and foreign and yet familiar, for realisation to slam into Jack like a speeding truck. It almost threw him off-balance, trying to scramble away from the man in front of him and hitting Fenrir’s chest instead.

“Loki.” Jack accused, but the man seemed to hear him as well as the Chitauri did. Fenrir echoed the sentiment with extra ire.

Jack had never seen his father shape-shift, but turning into someone like Jörmungandr wouldn’t have been difficult. There were relatively few physical characteristics that differed, excepting colouring. Looking at him again, it was impossible _not_ to see Loki clinging onto Sleipnir’s mane, eyes determinedly focused ahead.

“Why are you here?” Fenrir demanded.

“Saving you.” Loki returned snappishly, before refusing to speak again until they were clear of the aliens which had torn away from the rest of the army to pursue them. Theirs was a futile endeavour, attempting to chase them, as Loki could steer the horse effortlessly. They were picking up speed with every step, leaving the Chitauri far behind.

“We can’t stop,” Jack yelped when Sleipnir eventually skid to a halt, Fenrir slipping thankfully from his back to sneer at their father. Jack was dismissed, as the other two glowered.

“Why Jörmungandr?” He needed to know, voice too thin and emotions too frail to ask anything else, nerves at their wits end. His brother, back and forth from the dead, yet never truly there. It was enough to send anyone insane.

Loki frowned, before looking down at himself. “I have seen this boy lurking around.” He said, gesturing to his browned, freckled skin. “It seemed appropriate.”

Fenrir made a noise, all sense and rationality fleeing, but Jack had other concerns.

“Why have we stopped? Won’t they find us? Can’t they track me?”

“It’s not you, Jackson,” Loki said, even as he kept his eye on his dark-haired son.

Jack jumped, heart pounding as his father addressed him directly for the first time in what felt like centuries.  He could hear him, and he wasn’t attacking him or stealing his magic or otherwise harming him. Loki wasn’t looking at him either, but with Fenrir looming he would have been stupid to look away.

“I thought this was void, like Lyngvi.” Fenrir demanded.

“It is a space pocket,” Loki reminded them, scowling at their stupidity. “It is _made_ of magic. They have the Space Gem. How else did you think it was formed?”

“I could not feel any seiðr!”

“That’s because it’s _all_ seiðr, you foolish boy.”

“I lived in a void for centuries! I know how it feels!”

“This is _not_ the void,” Loki promised, eyes daring Fenrir to argue. There was a madness which festered behind his poison irises, and for the first time, Jack knew he was telling the truth.

“Why did it take the magic from me, then?”

“ _It_ didn’t. The red-haired creature _did_. He severed the tentative connection you had with your magic, and now you are how you were before.”

“No, Jörmungandr came later,” Jack argued, feeling his breath return to him and confusion worming his way in instead. “Really, though, shouldn’t we be moving? They’ll find me.”

“There is no beacon, sparrow,” Fenrir suddenly informed him. “What I felt was not you.”

“He only wanted you to think that he arrived later,” Loki snapped impatiently. “So that you would not suspect something was different about him when he approached you. He was watching you from the beginning.”

Fenrir’s eyes darkened with understanding.

“It was Jörmungandr’s magic you felt.” Loki explained.

“It’s not Jörmungandr,” The wolf snapped, snarling at their father. “What I want to know is _who_ it is? Why does his magic stand out against the air?”

“Not who. _What_.” Loki saw his son’s expression, matched on Jack’s face. He sighed, and elaborated: “He is made of a gem. A gem I have been working hard to keep from them.”

“Yellow,” Jack remembered, looking to his brother. “What’s that one?”

“Reality.” Fenrir replied, lips thinning. “They made a new-“ He stopped as his rage began to distort and overcome him at the thought of a twisted but none-the-less real Jörmungandr double. “Wait, how could they make it if they do not possess the gem?”

Loki didn’t know, mouth twisting with discontent as he tried to remember. Jack had seen that look far too often on his father recently, and couldn’t find comfort or even justice in the panic which overwhelmed the god of mischief.

“It was _you_ ,” Fenrir snarled suddenly, mind a whirlwind of cleverness and finger-pointing, relieved to be attributing blame but furious that Loki would do this to him. “You are the one with the gem, it could have _only_ been you! Why did you do it?”

“I chased them,” Loki said, voice no more than a thin whisper as his face scrunched up in concentration. His fingers curled in the long orange tresses he was wearing, that of the son he had lost, and his clenched fists shook. “I came here, and his face – _my_ face – was the only thing I could think of. I was _furious_ -“

“Just after they took Jörmungandr’s soul,” Jack translated, hovering near Fenrir and explaining it mostly to his brother, rather than to ease his father through his stinted recollection. “This was after the fight at the SHIELD helicarrier, wasn’t it? You disappeared after them, and came here.”

Loki was saying, “I wanted him alive. I wished him back. But it is nothing more than a shard of a gem, I did not _know_ that it would work.”

“It didn’t!” Fenrir howled furiously. “He is not my brother! He’s not your son!”

“Fenrir-“

“He _is_ you.” The wolf gaped suddenly, pointing. “He acts like you because you did not know him. You don’t know anything about Jörmungandr, but he looked enough like you so you pushed your personality onto him.” Jack had to stop him when he jolted forward, though Loki didn’t flinch as his older son moved to grab him, still standing with his hands in his hair, hunched over. “But you didn’t _know_ ,” he sneered. “So he was left here, and now they have a weapon with your mind and my brother’s face. I could not hurt him even as he attacked me, though I would be thrilled to lay hands on you!”

Loki burst free of his curled up stance, almost ripping out his hair as he shouted, “ _Fenrir_!” just to make him stop talking.

But, of course, Fenrir didn’t listen. “What have you been doing since Jörmungandr was taken? Skulking around, making more of a mess? Do you not believe you have caused enough damage? All of this is your fault!”

“None of it is my doing!” Loki roared, pacing forward and meeting his son nose-to-nose. “How dare you accuse me when no one else is taking any steps to stop this!”

“What about us, risking our lives to find the gems?”

“And almost walking into your demises; a trap laid so obviously that a _child_ would see, yet you still blinding tripped into it.”

“It is not my fault Asgard only perceives the bad in us, when it was you who made that reputation and ruined the lives of your children!”

“Children?” Loki demanded, laughing the same coarse, vicious laugh which they had heard leave the throat of Jörmungandr’s clone not ten minutes before. This stopped Fenrir dead, and he narrowed his eyes at his father.

“Yes,” he said, anger cooled for a moment as he squinted, assessing. “Children. Of which you have seven.”

Loki shook his head, glaring furiously at them both. “Useless,” he said, automatic and uncensored, and the brothers shared a worried glance between them.

“So the Others were telling the truth,” Jack said.

“Do not listen to them.” Loki snapped, waving a dismissive hand at him. “They are monsters. Heed none of their words. _Children_ , indeed.” He scoffed.

“Why are you here at all?” Jack said, shifting the topic in case either Fenrir or Loki got aggressive in their confusion. “Not that we’re not grateful for your help, but we’re kinda stuck now with no way out.”

“I am trying to stop them, what else?” Loki snapped.

The brothers paused, frowning, before saying, “So are we.”

Loki watched them suspiciously, lips thinning with discontent, suddenly uneasy as the boys stared him down. “What do you want from me?”

“We need to stop them,” Jack said, moving forward until he was hardly centimetres from the ground and closer to his father than he had been since Loki attacked him on Vanaheim. “And you want to as well. We could work _together_.”

Loki’s jaw shifted, eyes twitching between them, but before he could outright deny them (and Jack expected nothing else from him), Fenrir cut him short.

“How did you get in?” He asked suspiciously, and again the hostility between father and son became palpable.

Jack’s concerns, however, were a bit more pragmatic. “How are we getting out?”

They looked to Loki again, and the god stayed silent for a time, before nodding his head once. He moved his hands into the folds of his leather coat, revealing a glittering yellow bead which Jack had seen before. Even he felt the power it exuded, and the way it pulsed through the sticky atmosphere.

He said, “Do you wish to leave, boys?”

“I do not trust you,” Fenrir stated brusquely. Jack shared the sentiment.

“You do not need to trust me, but the gem.” Loki held out his hands and, with great reluctance and not a small amount of fear, Fenrir and Jack took them. “Now tell me where you wish to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a perfect world, I would update on Wednesdays and Fridays. As it is, I might just make it weekly instead. Do Friday updates sound alright to everyone?   
> No promises that I’ll keep to that! But I feel like we’re going to start wrapping stuff up soon, and therefore I should get my act together.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Feel free to drop me a comment!


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